The sad Song of Sunflowers
by mimi 007
Summary: It seems no-one wants to become one with him, no matter how good his intentions are. All he truly wants are friends... but it is not going well... So... Only one thing can be done. Everyone must be one for him! Rated for violence. About WWIII
1. Prologue

This is my story of Russia, and will continue as soon as I am done with all my (far too many) other fics. The first chapter, or rather, the prologue, will be a song-chapter (not song-fic) with 12 stones' World so Cold, for the simple reason that when I came by it in a playlist, the lyrics forced my thoughts to Russia. I HAD to begin this. The song DEMANDED it!

Warnings: Blood and pain and a _very_ long prologue.

Disclaimer: Neither own the song World so Cold by 12 stones or any characters from Hetalia.

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><p>Prologue<p>

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><p>Violet eyes were tightly shut as the small child, looking about seven or eight years old and big for his age, was hit once again, this time stumbling to the ground with a startled cry of pain. The man wearing his black, fur-coated hat towered above him, staring down with a mix of malice and disgust, before placing his foot on the chest of the child.<p>

_It starts with pain_

"I will say this only once more," he said, the foot slowly pushing down onto the child's frail body. The forest around them was for once filled with sunshine, and the snow turned into icy puddles of mud that matted unto the scarf he wore around his neck. It was the far south of his lands. The pink color of blood had mixed with the dirty water, running from both the mouth and the nose of the boy as well as cuts on other parts of his body. "Pay my taxes. Give me your land. I do not want to hurt you, you know."

The voice was so sweet, and a smile crept onto the face of the Golden Horde, a smile the little boy would see so many more times in his centuries. A smile that never reached the eyes, an expression he would meet every time he looked into a mirror many years forward.

The pressure on his chest lightened to let him breathe enough to speak, and so he did, fulfilling the responsibility his mother had been forced to pass to him. "M-my p-people… Th-they are starving. I-I c-can't give you more. P-please."

_Followed by hate  
><em>He tried to be submissive. He really tried. But despite the tears in his eyes and the pain in his face, the stammer in the beginning of every sentence, a fire he could not demolish burned beneath the flushed skin and those tearful eyes. He did not want to be hurt – did not want to suffer, or make his people suffer. Still… he just… could not… bow…

The Golden Horde saw this, and he grit his teeth as his smile faltered for a second to an outraged expression. Then it was back on, the smile, wide as he stepped up again, up and on, onto the side of the boy's pale face. "Then I cannot ask more of you, can I?" he asked in malicious satisfaction as he squeezed the skull of the younger one. Finally, when the kid was sure his skull would break from the pressure, the man lightened the weight.

"Unfortunately," he began, his eyebrows rising, "I am better off with you alive. No matter how annoying you are, you are too weak to fight back, and have a lot of land beneath you." He squatted down beside the boy, who laid half-conscious, staring dully up at him. His hand brushed some stray, ash-blond bangs away from the small forehead. "Take care," he said, nearly sounding like he meant it. "And remember, this is nothing. Next time, it will be hundred times worse."

It took a while for the boy to realize he had left, but as he did, he sat up, his hand curled tightly into a fist, new tears filling his eyes._  
>Fueled by the endless questions<br>_He tried to stand, but the dizziness in his head after having been stepped on made it impossible. So much anger filled him, but his age prevented him from doing what he wanted. Beat up the culprit. And so, instead, he closed his eyes and let the nails of his fisted hand bore into the skin.

A sob coursed through his body, new tears flowing from his eyes, mixing with the still fresh blood underneath his nose and chin.

"Where are my sisters?" he screamed at the nothingness, choking the sobs with his forceful cry. It was about fifty years since he had been parted from them. "Why are you doing this?" He spat out a mass of drying blood and snot that had travelled down on the inside from his nose to his throat, shaking wildly from the sobs. "Can't you just leave me alone? What did I do to make you do this?"

His hands moved to his head, gripping his hair and tried to pull it out of his scalp. "Wh-what did I do?" he sobbed, the tears flowing freely past his bruised face, down to the earth._  
>No one can answer<em>

Around him, no-one seemed to hear him. Only an icy breeze, filled with newly made ice crystals that did not fit the warmth of the environment, stayed as his company. Slowly, with stiff fingers, he let go of his hair, not noticing the many strands in ash-blond color sticking to his bloodied hand. "What…" His voice was nothing but a whisper in that freezing wind. "What did you do to my mother?"

The thought of his mother was worse than the thought of his sisters, and he once again grabbed his hair tightly, closed his eyes, and leaned his forehead towards his bended knees. A tight knot filled him where his heart was supposed to be, and a vision flared behind his eyelids. A vision of a young woman, nearly only a girl, her hear a shining blond and he slim body covered with plates and leather. She was smiling at him, the age of her body seemingly about eighteen to twenty.

_A stain_

She had told him that he was going to succeed parts of her landmasses along with his sisters. That he was going to be the one in charge if she would ever be gone and that he would be so strong that he would never get under the control of other countries. He would be protector and king of the Slavs. He would be the biggest, strongest kingdom, and in time, everyone would be a part of him, and he would rule the Flat World.

That was what she had told him. That his sisters were not weaker – simply made of different material. But one day, the Golden Horde with his fur-coated hat and golden skin came, just outside the borders of Kiev, the capital of his mother who had already been falling apart for about a century.

The stranger had been invading for long, using his soldiers to take one of his mother's rivaling parts after the other. She had pulled out her sword, meeting him head on, swiping at him, and her young body engaged in combat with his older.

Then all he had seen was a splash of red, and his mother fell to the ground, her back still to her three children as she ended on the floor. Then he never saw her again, as the man had stepped over her, his gaze to the children, and he had grabbed for them all.

He and his bigger sister had stepped in front of the little one, and so, he was grabbed first, his flailing limps no match for the stranger. His subordinates, mere human beings, taking his sisters.

That was the last time he had seen them, or his mother, the Kievan Rus'. The last time…

He muffled a scream, his hands falling into the puddle of red mud, staining his ragged clothes and the cloth around his neck.

_Covers your heart_

It hurt so much. Even if he did not understand the fall of his mother… something told him it was his last glimpse of her. Four hundred years she had lived, and she claimed he would be the conqueror of the world. How could he trust her, when she could not even keep her own lands? Yet in all honesty, that was not what really bothered him.

_Tears you apart just like a sleeping cancer_

It was the fact that he would never see her again. Her shining, blue eyes, the vivid, blonde hair, the calm, soothing aura, all of them were forever gone. He would never see her again, even if he did not understand the concept of death after having lived for only about hundred to a hundred and fifty full years. Even his sisters might be gone forever, even if he knew they were somewhere apart of the Golden Horde's empire.

He knew, deep in his heart, that he would never see his mother again, and that he would never look upon his sisters with the same eyes.

A surreal smile crept onto his face at the thoughts as he dragged his fingers through the mud, a weird feeling of indifference filling him, erasing the troubles of his mind. It was so much like the one he had met in his enemy. The smile just kept growing and growing, and growing, until he felt so careless, so free, that he stood on trembling feet, his head still pounding and the rest of his body still bloody and beaten.

Dragging himself off, to under a tree, away from the puddle, he laid himself down and closed his eyes, snuggling into the cloth around his neck, sniffing for the scent of his long lost family. Sniffing in and going to sleep while contemplating how he could stab his capturer right through the heart, just so he could be certain that the organ was _still_ there in such an evil body.

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><p><em>Now I don't believe men are born to be killers<em>

Russia stood by the border of his territory. He stood five feet and eight inches with the age of his body seeming just to be about thirteen. He sat on the a stone in the snow, grinding a poor sword with a crooked blade, using a rock and looking at the bridge parting him from a world some had told him was rich and beautiful. He did not, however, even consider leaving this world yet. His sword was for one body and one body only.

Plastered on his face was a smile so weak and innocent, his eyes closed and looking serene, his face so often having gotten bruised it was a miracle he still looked so much like an angel. The motion of the rock was nearly musical, always following the same rhythm. _Kriiiich_, _kriiiich_, _kriich kriich_,_ kriiiich_. It seemed peaceful and quiet, the famous scene of the lone soldier.

That was when he opened his eyes. They were hard, frozen orbs of amethyst, so out of place in a both childish and calm face, a face just the age of a big child. He looked down at the sword, his head forming a plan to overturn the rule of his areas.

_I don't believe that this world can't be saved_

He would not only help himself. He would help all areas under the rule of the harsh Mongolian's Empire. When he stabbed the man through the heart, he would get the status of a hero. His smile widened slightly at the thought. He would be a hero like those men who was said to slay dragons, and those heroes got both virgin princesses and friends and were followed by many people.

He wanted friends, but he did not want to be weak while having friends. If he should have a friend, he should deserve it, and deserve it he did if he could defend his own territory, and maybe even expand! It would be so perfect if he could expand and make everyone a part of him!

So he would be a hero and slay the Golden Horde, and free both the rich and beautiful world on the other side of the bridge and the cold and hard world on this side from the threat of the man.

_How did you get here and when did it start_

He was sure this was what his mother meant. She had known she would not live long, and so had told him that he was going to be strong and big and rule the Flat World and save them all. She was clairvoyant, so she had seen her fall. But furthermore, she had seen his rise from her ashes, like the birds of fire that lived in the beautiful world of the south filled with flowers the size of a man.

She had seen a lot of things. So much of a lot of things. So he would slay the evil dragon of a man and be a hero, a hero so big that all freely would give themselves to him.

_An innocent child with a thorn in his heart_

He felt a sudden jab in his heart, a shock of electricity making him jump, and the smile faltered. He had been alone for so long, without anyone knowing… Did anyone even miss him? If anyone truly cared, why had they not come? Were there even other things than him and the Golden Horde? Kievan Rus' could have survived, and his sisters had to be somewhere… near… If they were still there… if he really had been there, if he really had been their brother, if he truly had been in their world, why had they left him? Was he… truly… all alone?

Tears welled up in his eyes, and for once his eyes showed more than just frozen blankness. They showed a child, fearing the world truly had abandoned him. "Will I always be alone?" his shaking voice asked him, and even just the words made him flinch.

'You do not want to be alone, eh?' the wind asked him, and he raised his head confusedly at the whirling snowflakes. 'I have been watching you for years, little Ivan. Stubborn boy, are you. If you want company, I can keep you company for about six months every year.'

"Who are you?" the Russian asked. Had anyone been watching him, they would think he was mad. "Are you one of the Horde's companions?" He gripped his sword tighter, letting the stone he had used to grind it fall into his purse.

'Oh, no, I am one of your companions. Or rather, your only companion. Call me General Winter, an old man who has seen far too many years of this poor world without meeting a figure worth my while. If you let me stay with you forever and ever, I will help you stop all the future invasion-attempts you might meet. You have the qualities I have been seeking.'

His words were reassuring and good, and even if his defenses against possible invasions were poor, poor help was better than no help. So his smile spread across his face as he nodded. "I would love your company, General."

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><p><em>What kind of world do we live in?<em>

Yet another head was crushed underneath the wooden end of his sestroryetsk rifle, the crunch of breaking bones surreally clear. The Russian man fell, his body limp. Maybe dead. Maybe not.

Ivan did not turn to check, merely turned the gun around and continued shooting at his citizen, his eyes burning with childish anger while his face was covered with a smile.

The streets of Saint Petersburg were slowly darkening with red as more and more civilians fell wounded, dying or dead from the shots of Russia or his military subordinates. Truth to be told, Russia had not been commanded to do this by his boss, but his boss was out of town, and both Russia and the man in charge in the tsar's absence had agreed on the methods currently being used.

_Where love is divided by hate_

Why would they not understand? It was not his wish that they were starving and overworking, nor the wish of the tsar! The economy of the nation was bad, they were undergoing a depression, why could they not just go back to work and make money instead of complaining about the country?

The Russian Empire was more stable now than in any other part of Russia's history, could they not get that?

_Losing control of our feelings_

It made him so mad!

He pulled the trigger again, aiming for his own people before having to reload the stupid gun. With this stupid weapon, he could not even get satisfaction for his stupid feelings!

He threw the gun to the ground, his smile still on his face even if he was exploding inside. Then he ran and chasing the civilians, bullets from the soldiers behind him flying closely past his body. He could not bear the feeling – he hated to feel bad feelings. Bad feelings were the same as pain, and he was certain too much pain had already been inflicted on him.

_We all must be dreaming this life away_

Fleeing away in the heat of the south he had never truly seen, he flung one of his giant fists at a woman, hitting her neck and making her fall. He was not psychologically present when he stepped on her neck, choking her while a dagger came to his hand from its sheath on his belt. He knelt down, never taking the pressure off of her throat. He stabbed her through her chest, stabbed her stabbed her stabbed her, letting her feel his anger and take it in his stead.

All the while, he did not notice the blood that bloomed through his ash-blond hair, bleeding from a wound on his scalp near his temple despite no bullets and no blades having touched his body.

_In a world so cold_

The street sudden fell quiet, and he looked around confusedly. Where had everyone gone? He took a step backwards, suddenly noticing the woman whose blood covered his blade, hands and clothes, her throat crushed from his weight. What had happened? What had he done?

A sob crushed his insides, churning his stomach and lungs as he fell to the ground, his smile gone, sobbing at the pain from his hip, his Saint Petersburg. How…? How…? How…?

'What a mess,' an amused voice commented, and the head with the ash-blond hair scowled at the freezing wind suddenly whirling around him, so cold he was shivering. 'Did you lose it again, Ivan? Usually, you keep your own people out of your rampaging. Did they touch the door to your tsar's house or something just as vile?'

The smile crept back to the face of the blond as he turned around in the wind. He even forgot to curse himself for having let the General into his country, like he had done ever since he had been 'accompanied' by the harsh Winter for the first year. No, he just simply smiled. "Shut up, da!"

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><p><em>Are you sane? <em>

Crimson eyes stared up into his violet, rage so strong it would have made Russia recoil just fifty years before. When the tsars still lived, and the world still seemed sane. Now, all it did was filling him with joy at the fun of their game, especially since he knew the broken limps prevented the Prussian to strike back. So helpless. It was loveable!

He took another sip of the vodka in his hand and crouched down to caress the near-white hair, only to take his hand away with the speed of a snake when Gilbert's white teeth tried to snatch at his gloves. Ivan pouted slightly, as though he was a disappointed child whose mother would not give him candy. "Stupid, stupid Gilbert."

"Prussia, you fucking jerk," the other snapped, wincing whenever he accidently moved. His left arm was broken in two places, the elbow on the right popped out of its socket, and the Prussian did not even want to think of his legs.

Ivan crossed his arms, not satisfied by the others attitude. "You are not kind, Gilbert, not kind. Want to make your stay here a forever nightmare, da?" He stepped closer again, lifting his foot and taking it down upon the head of the other nations while drinking the rest of the vodka in his bottle. "You and your brother are responsible for over 26 million deaths. Deaths of people formerly living within my borders. You should be more respectful, da?" Then he flung the glass at the man's shoulder with all his might, making it explode in shards.

_Where's the shame?_

The Prussian had been lucky enough to turn his head, so that his nose was not crushed. Still, the Russian man was taller than him and looked about twice his weight, and Gilbert had a hard time not wailing and crying out in pain, especially when a shard of glass had been pushed into his skin. But he was too stubborn, and in too much pain, to do so, his broken ribs risking to injure his lungs if he screamed.

The world became black stars springing before his eyes, telling him he was on the verge of losing consciousness, but the painless bliss of dark sub-consciousness was not welcomed him. The pressure lifted, the boot was removed, and he could only barely see Russia smile down at him again and crouch down once more, letting his fingers caress the hair.

Finally, he was satisfied, and the smile on his face became true. He had won! He had touched the ever untouchable Prussia's hair! He laughed, long and hard and cheerfully, as he turned around and worked the stairs, feeling free and happy and his eyes were twinkling.

_A moment of time passes by_

He opened the door and yelled; "Raivis!", knowing he could not let the man in the basement lie without help. The small nation did not come, and he yelled again, a little harder. "RAIVIS!" The boy came running, knowing that if he did not come right that moment, Russia's happy game of hide-and-seek would begin.

"Y-yes, m-master Russia?" He was quivering with fear, knowing nothing good was coming. A hand was placed on his head as always, pressing him down, and Ivan smiled widely at the small, fearful boy in his very kind care.

"Prussia would like you in the basement. Be kind, da?" This was torment for both the small one and the wounded one, as Latvia feared the albino nearly as much as he feared Russia, and Prussia would take being treated by weaklings, or anyone other than his brother anyway, as shameful.

_You cannot rewind_

Ivan turned, walking to his office, and queerly, even if his house was full of other nations as he had continued to grow, he only met Ukraine and Belarus on the way, sipping tea by the living room sofa. He smiled at them, and they smiled back, their feelings honest but smiles weak. Ukraine loved him dearly, but parts of his actions had always scared her, and he had been getting worse since the start of the new century. Belarus still liked him the same way she always had, but… the blood staining his clothes from the Prussian kind of scared her…

He waved slightly at them, not even slowing down before reaching his office. So much time had passed by, but every part of the mansion he had built in the middle of nowhere still looked like an upper-class home of the 19th century. He looked at the furniture, the desk and chair, all the paintings on the wall, and remembered the smiling faces of the people giving it to him, moving over to the three sunflowers by the window.

Most of it, he had gotten from the Romanovs'.

_Who's to blame and where did it start_

His smile fell at the thought, and he drew out the pipe Gilbert had been lucky enough not to feel. It was flung over his head before it hit the desk hard, his strength crashing the surface with all the papers of work he was supposed to make.

The smile was still missing at the next swing, and the next, perishing the delicate desk. When he felt it was done, he swung at the chair with the pipe like a sword, smashing it into the painting he still kept of Tsar Nikolay Alexandrovich Romanov, which got torn by the force.

It was all the fault of the tsars! Or was it his sisters? Or was it the General? Or the Germans? The loss of his mother or the Golden Horde or the loneliness or the weakness or the civilians of Bloody Sunday? Why did it hurt so much not to smile?

He had lost track of it all. He had lost track of all his pain. It was all the same, just the same.

_Is there a cure for your sickness?_

"M-master Russia?" a shivering voice asked, and he turned, the smile back on.

"Privyet, Toris!" he near-yelled, letting the pipe fall and jumped over, hugging the poor nation so tightly the Lithuanian nearly got to re-taste his lunch. He was at a loss for words, just as Russia had no idea why seeing a person made tears form in his eyes. He continued the hugging, swinging the other around until he had control over his tears. Then, the slim nation was smacked the ground, screaming in shock as it happened.

_Have you no heart?_

Before Lithuania could even attempt of fleeing, Russia sat on his chest with the attitude of a big brother tormenting his little brother. "Toooris, I want a new desk, da! One just as old as my old, with markings and a chair and paintings and shelves and pens and paper and bookshelves and books in Cyrillic. And they shall be from your old house, da!" Toris looked around, and noticed to his fear that the hall was void of people.

Then he looked to the Russian and fought to smile. "S-s-sure, sure, Master R-Russia, just let me get up so I can d-do it, okay?" Another jab of fear filled him when he saw the Russian stick out his tongue at him, looking utterly overjoyed.

"I am not moving from here before my office is useable again, da!"

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><p><em>Now I don't believe men are born to be killers<em>

The dinning-room was hauntingly quiet, the only sound louder than the humming of whispers was the whistling from the Russian's mouth from the end of the table. Russia enjoyed enjoying his dinner with the subordinates, or republics, of the Soviet, but the same could not be said about these subordinates.

Hungary was trying to protect everyone from Prussia's sharp tongue, to keep him out of trouble.

His sisters were sitting beside their conqueror, but only answered the questions he might give them in attempt not to get enemies among the rest of the residents at the table. Belarus was more talkative, though, giving him small looks when no one watched.

The man called Moldova tried to stare the Hungarian woman down, his anger towards her still flaring even if it was more than a hundred years since her armies continuously invaded his territory.

Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania sat beside Belarus, eating in silence and begging it to continue.

The women Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia sat the furthest away from the Russian's end, whispering among them in an attempt of finding together in another alliance when they rose against their captor.

In short, it was no joyful table.

_I don't believe this world can't be saved_

In the mind of about everyone, plans of either escaping or fighting themselves free took a lot of space, but even if they were four times as many _if_ his beloved sisters were to join him, he was still the stronger. Their own quarrels could be put aside for a moment of kicking the Russian over the shins, but their daydream was crushed by facts.

He had not only physical strength to crush them, as well as weapons to do so, but none of their territory was without his soldiers, and if they would make an uproar and try a revolution, it would end in their people getting slaughtered with his pure numbers of soldiers and better developed weaponry. They could not see the light, not now and not even a thousand years forward.

_How did you get here and when did it start_

"Gilbert!" Russia said suddenly, breaking the whispering, whistling silence by pointing at the man, mentioning the name of one of his favorites to torment. The Prussian knew it was for all the lives his brother had taken in the Russian regions, but he still stared back proudly, even with one arm in a sling and a black eye. "Did you do something funny today, da?"

"It's Prussia, you jee-!nngh-idiot," he tried to correct himself, but the other choice of words was no better than his first. "And except for freeze, starve and sleeping in your bed when I was supposed to make it, nothing, Arschloch." He could not hold his tongue, and even though most of the residents in the house had learned to hate him for his former actions, the feelings were slowly beginning to settle into more reasonable conclusions.

He and his stubborn strength certainly was their biggest hope of rescue, after all.

_An innocent child with a thorn in his heart_

Ivan pouted sadly, picking at his food. "That's sad," he said, half-way feeling the words he spoke, a promise of another childishly cruel game for the Prussian in the morning. "That's very sad, Gilbert." The chant of 'Kol kol kol' was not far behind, though it was slightly muffled by the food in the Russian's mouth.

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><p><em>What kind of world do we live in?<em>

Ukraine stood on the outside of the door to his office, now filled with stuff from the poor Lithuania's own home. She stood there, hearing his drunken-song of vodka through the door, along with his pen scraping over his papers. It was a hot day of Russian status, especially in this area, and she had been planning on going for a walk with him for about a week.

She just had not gotten around asking, and now when even the weather was with her, she decided to ask him this day. Her hand reached out to the door, and she felt the cold knob on her skin as she was about to turn it. She smiled. It could be like the old days, before the Golden Horde.

_Where love is divided by hate?_

Then footsteps behind her reached her ears, and she turned to look into the green eyes of Elizaveta, the Hungarian nation. The other's eyes looked her over, then turned to the hand she held on the door, and the slightest movement of disgust passed over the other woman's lips and eyes. Then she went back to smiling, but Katyusha saw the disgust, that immense contempt.

And Katyusha had never been a strong woman. Her lips quivered as she let go of the knob, deciding that this day was not the day to ask her brother for at walk. Not this day, nor any other.

The Hungarian frowned at her slightly, and then nodded, deciding that the other woman had taken her stand in the game, even if the contester was her own little brother. Then she turned away, letting the woman be alone with her thoughts.

_Losing control of our feeling_

As soon as Katyusha no longer heard her, she felt the tears roll down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away, hating that she was crying once again, but the salty waters continued to come to her cheeks again and again, no matter how hard she tried.

Deciding her brother could not see her crying, she ran off, her footsteps clattering through the hall as she made way for the bedroom she shared with Belarus. Her movements were of course heard by the Russian, and just ten seconds later, he slammed the door open and looked about, wondering what he had heard and if it was something fun to do.

_We're dreaming this life away_

When she finally reached her bed, Ukraine tossed herself upon it, lying on her stomach and crying into her arms. She wanted her brother back, the sweet little brother whom had smiled true smiles and laughed warm laughs, who had played real games and who she had thought would grow into a tall, strong hero and succeed most of their mother's lands without shaming them.

She wondered what had gone wrong. Where had she lost her grip on him? Where had she gone wrong to make him a malicious, intelligent child in the body of a human giant? When had the path turned wrong and the line been crossed?

She cried so long that she fell asleep, and in her dream, she gave him her scarf once again, and she and Belarus helped each other putting it on to their freezing brother. Those were the good time. Those were life. Those were two weeks before the invasion of the Horde.

* * *

><p><em>What kind of world do we live in?<em>

Russia stared over the border to what the world now preferred to as West Germany, standing of the earth of the eastern part of the split country. He was here for one reason. To stop the people going from _his_ land to the capitalists. "What will you do, sir?" the human beside him asked, and Russia smiled at him like the words he was about to say were the sanest thing in the world.

"Build a wall, of course! One to go down from one end of the border to another, da. If anyone comes from their side to ours, they are welcome. They may even come to join Russia, da. But anyone coming from our side must be stopped, no matter what means it takes."

The man seemed shocked, but Ivan noticed nothing, just smiling out to the other side of the border. It was at the end of winter, sure, but Winter still roamed. For that reason, Ivan was happy to be outside his own borders, for it was only there Winter ruled. Here, he might even see sunflowers sprout if he stayed for long enough.

His dreamy thoughts were broken when a figure with a yellow head approached them.

_Where love is divided by hate?_

"So it is true that you have approached. What are you doing here, coming to take the other half?" the blond German asked, not even shouting, but his army-voice clear even a hundred feet away. He was still coming towards them, though, and nothing kind showed in his face.

This did not discourage Russia, who just tilted his head to the side and watched the German, his smile not even faltering. "No, I just had plans of making a wall to stop you Nazi-thoughts from spreading into my un-Nazi side, da."

"And what if I do not approve?" Germany asked, seemingly uncomfortable. He did not like to be apart from his big brother, especially not since said big brother was suffering because of his deeds, and a wall to make their separation physical was just… cruel and unbearable.

Russia just shook his head. "I make the wall a meter within my own border. Then it is my wall and mine _only_. And you cannot argue, da?"

The blond was silent for a moment, swallowing something in his mouth. "Anything I can do for you not to?" he asked, hoping to get reason out of the man in his front.

"Become one with me, da!"

_Selling our souls for no reason_

How could words of imprisonment be so tempting? The blue eyes got closed, trying to reason with himself that the only thing he would get would be an angry big brother, yelling at him that all the suffering he had been through would be in vain if he became 'one with Russia'. He knew it was the truth, and that it would only bring his brother more pain.

And still, the pull to be beside his idiotic, annoying, arrogant brother was so great. The reason for changing the border was stupid and made for selfish reasons only.

_We all must be dreaming this life away_

Finally, he shook his head. It was not even for him to decide, but America and all the others who were supposed to own him. And that was the reason for his final decline, and Russia did not even seem sad about it. Just very amused.

"Then it's your problem, da?" the bigger nation said, reaching over and padding the German on the head, much to the strict one's irritation. "Do svidanya!"

_In a world so cold_

Russia walked away, and did not even speak Russian as he loudly spoke the plans of the wall to the citizen by his side, and Ludwig lowered his head and closed his eyes to conceal his tears. He shivered as the remnants of the cold wind of winter swiped past the landscape of spring, and bit his lower lip to regain control of his feelings.

It would not be forever. Even if Russia was still strong, he would not be strong forever. No country had been great for more than a few centuries, at least in the last millennia. He and his brother would get together again, in time, and Prussia might even get his lands back.

* * *

><p><em>There's a sickness inside you that wants to escape<em>

Another bottle was set on his desk, empty after having been gulped down in and angry manner. Ivan was in a bad mood, had been so for a few hours without knowing why. It had begun in a headache he was very sure rooted in the scar from Bloody Sunday, set under his hair near the temple. This was the reason for his heavy drinking, as he tried to drown his sadness in his sweet vodka.

Other bottles already lied on his desk, some of them still standing. Had it been a man of another size or a man with less experience in drinking, they would have passed out and in danger of dying from overdrinking. To his luck, he had been drinking since morning. Russia was still in the dying-risk, but he was awake.

Searching for a new bottle under the table, his swimming gaze was startled to find no more. He sighed, tried to stand and found his feet gliding under him, like the floor was covered with butter. He grabbed unto the side of the desk to steady himself, and swiped the empty bottles to the floor in the process. He stared at the door, annoyed that it danced tauntingly in front of him.

_It's a feeling you get when you can't find your way_

On unsteady feet he made way towards the door, reaching for the jumping knob. It continued to slip from his fingers, and he lost all patience and slammed his head into the door to open it.

It still did not open, but he found that banging his head against something dulled the painful sadness in his chest and pain in his head better than the alcohol. He aimed for the door again, banged his head towards it, but what connected to his forehead was a wall. It did not matter. All that mattered was the relief, and he grabbed onto the shelf beside the door to keep himself steady as he continued his self-damaging.

The fact that everything was against him no longer mattered. The helplessness of being sad without reason, the bottle of vodka that was not there, the doorknob that continued to avoid his fingers. All that mattered was the pain in his chest and head that got dulled, the wish of things getting better becoming less important for every jab of pain.

_So how many times must you fall to your knees?_

He did not notice the door open slightly at the noise and the head of one of his servants, this time Hungary, peering in. She saw his state and gasped soundlessly, disappeared again to get the rest.

Even if they hated him and even if they wanted him to disappear, they knew they could not kill him, even in this state. His soldiers still resided in their own lands, without themselves having anyone to defend themselves. And worse than that, if he woke up with a headache that was worse than a hangover, he would blame them for not stopping him.

Even Prussia came, but probably more to look than anything. Russia noticed them and made a swing at the nearest, Eduard, and though he hit his target, the power was too much for his outbalanced body to handle. He slipped on his feet and fell into the desk again, his upper body hitting the surface while the lower hit the broken bottles. "Ai want vodkla!" he exclaimed, trying to kick out at them but failing to determine the distance.

"How-how much did he drink?" Georgia asked, staring at the bottles under his legs with disbelief. They had not seen him all day, but had thought nothing of it for the time being, most actually happy for a day off. "W-will he die?" And despite everything, none of them wished for such things to happen.

"Y-you have gotten enough, Master Russia," Lithuania stated, trying to get close as the bigger man tried to get back to his feet. He got so close he could grab his shoulder, but Russia found his feet right then and flung a fist at Toris. He hit his target again, but the Lithuanian managed to get a grip on his elbow and hold it. Confused by this, and by his lack of control over everything about himself and the rest, Ivan did not even get time to react when the next of them grabbed him.

He began to struggle, and when he did, they knew they had to force him to the ground to keep control of him. Ukraine got thrown up on as soon as she tried to help them, tears in her eyes at her brother's state, and other's got stained too by what seemed to be pure alcohol. But getting the upper hand was not as hard as you could think, with him being drunk, yet even if his flailing limps were imprecise, they had not lost their strength.

_Never, never, never, never, never do this again_

He ended on his stomach, trashing about, with both his hands, Moldova, Hungary, Estonia and even Belarus on his back to keep him there and Ukraine in the corner, fighting her tears. It did not please Ivan, and he did his best to roll around and smack his head into the floor in frustration until Prussia, grinning amusedly, put a pillow underneath.

"I hrate youv!" the Russian slurred, rolling his head from side to side on the pillow, staining it with the remnants of puke from the corners of his lips. "Ai flate youv all! Ai hrate youv de mosth, even if youvrr hair ish ngice ang whith." He still tried to free himself, squirming and tossing and turning. Then he suddenly stopped, the only sound in the room the panting of the fighters.

Russia laid with his head to the side on the pillow, staring dully into the books on his shelf, his drunken head spinning. His face once again resembled one of a child again, but it was a sad child, a lonely child. A child who had seen far too many nights without hope to light his darkness. "Wry won't youv be nice? Wry do you hlate mii? Ai-Ai-I only wrant youv for fjiends…"

* * *

><p><em>It starts with pain<em>

The fall of the wall. The end of his reign. He was never supposed to fall… but now, the fall of the wall he had made to keep his people in was a symbol for people to get out.

His loss of power was not what hurt the most. It was the smiles of all those people he had taken care of when they were suddenly freed. Their happiness that they had never showed him when they were part of him.

_Followed by hate_

His house was empty. So empty. And cold. No nations to keep it warm with their presence and their chopped wood.

_Now I don't believe men are born to be killers_

How did it all happen? Where had he gone wrong? He had never hurt anybody, had he? Everything he had done to them, he had tried himself… Why would they want to move away for something like that? They just did not follow his orders… it was only natural… they had to be punished…

_And I don't believe this world can't be saved_

The library was empty. Normally, this was where he could find Estonia and Latvia when he had a good day. The kitchen was empty. That was where Hungary fled to when her thoughts about Austria got too hurtful. And there was the living room. This was where his sisters usually sat, chatting about things he did not understand…

But now, only the cold winds of Winter occupied the chairs of the library and played with the shelves in the kitchen, and clattered with the dirty china by the sofa of his livingroom…

America and a lot of the other called his former subordinates 'saved'. Saved from what, Russia had to ask…

* * *

><p><em>What kind of world do we live in?<em>

His house was so scary sometimes. Or maybe it was just because of the figure outside his house, trying to pry herself in. "Brooootheeerrr, why don't you come ooouut?" Why had she changed? How had she become like that? He shivered, sitting in the dust of his empty house, behind his moth-bitten, worn sofa, hiding from his little sister.

She was worse than the feeling of being alone, wanting to do things to him that he did not want himself. He wanted friends, close friends, not lovers, and his little sister _was_ his little sister.

_Where love is divided by hate_

He had not seen his big sister, on the other hand, for months… or was it years? Time seemed to pass by without him, and the world meetings seemed to float together despite of the great amount of time there was between them, and he tuned out his visits from Winter in attempt of surviving them sanely. She had chosen _them_ instead of him, trying to be a part of the world, but was he not a part of the world too? … Actually, he was not very sure anymore, despite his amounts of land.

The rest of the world hated him… Had that not been the case, his sister would still be beside him, smiling at him whenever he spoke to her. If he had not been hated, she could go on her search for friends without cutting her ties with him. But as the situation was, it was a choice between him and the rest of the world… and somehow, he was the lightest.

_Losing control of our feelings_

The banging on the door continued for another half hour, until she decided he was not in the house and left to find him somewhere else. He continued to sit there, though, knowing that she still looked for him and might see him through the windows if he moved around.

He felt a swiping wind, and despite knowing what it was, he did not shiver in fear or anger. "You will never leave me, da?" He heard an amused chuckle, and the wind curled around him, like a human sitting down beside him, arms around him. An invisible, icy cold human, of course.

And for some reason, he could not stop his tears, and did not know if they were for the happiness of never spending a whole year alone… or sadness for only having a sadistic old element for company.

_We're dreaming this life away_

'No, Ivan,' the voice told him, so utterly amused at the words he had heard from the others mouth, the near plead of loneliness. 'I will _never_ leave you.' And suddenly, the presence holding him grew unbearably tight.

* * *

><p><em>What kind of world do we live in?<em>

He tossed himself around in the bed, another dream filling his mind.

_Where love is divided by hate?_

Images of his sisters, his former subordinates, his former enemies, the entire world. All of them flashed before his closed eyelids.

_Selling our souls for no reason_

'Life is not worth to be lived if we have no human to share it with. Ever heard of that?'

_We all must be dreaming this life away_

He sat of sharply, panting and staring through the darkness at the fading and scaling tapestry.

_In a world so cold_

He stood from bed, rubbed his eyes in a childish manner and made a decision that would affect the world.

* * *

><p><em>In a world so cold<em>

"Who's there? Why do you call me at four in the morning?"

"It's Russia, da."

"Ivan… What is it now…? Who do you want to visit this time? Not Ukraine again, right?"

"It nothing of the sort, da. Very important, Mr. Medvedev, very important. I want you and Mr. Putin in your office a five o'clock today, boss, and don't you dare be late, da!"

"What is so important I may not get my sleep?"

"We are going to war! Funny, da?"


	2. Losing control

A second chapter! I would like you to know that I never stopped writing after Christmas – my attention just turned to one of the stories I am not going to post before I am finished with at least five of my current stories. It is a story that might never get up, but that's that. I still have the intention to finish all my stories, though.

Warnings:

Disclaimer: I own no characters of Hetalia or any of the other people mentioned. I do not profit from anything I write, even if I have a dream of becoming a writer. I also apologize if anyone should take offense at the people mentioned.

Reviews:

Sigart: Thank you for telling ^^ I hope you continue to read.

* * *

><p>Losing control<p>

* * *

><p>The leaders of the Russian Federation lead Ivan into the halls of the democratic affairs of the country where the State Duma and the Federation Council, the lower and upper houses of the political estate. Both houses had been collected in one hall, a feat that had never truly happened before. The incarnation of Russia had forced both Putin and Medvedev together in an office at five o'clock in the morning, telling them the situation. They had no choice.<p>

The doors to the hall opened and the few mutters that had been heard silenced. The moment Ivan entered the hall seemed to shrink, and uneasy aura filling the big room. Putin and Medvedev sat in their own seats while Russia stayed in the front, his violet eyes regarding the room with an empty coldness that did not fit his smile.

"Who is this?" one asked. They all knew every face in the Federal Assembly, and it was no surprise that they did not know Ivan. He had not taken part in any official business since the fall of the USSR except for the world meetings with the rest of the incarnated countries. The politicians had thought him too unstable, in which they were right, but they also needed to uphold an image of being friends with him towards the rest of the world. A bad relationship between the politicians and their country was a sign of weakness.

"This man is called Ivan Braginski," Putin announced, though the name itself held no meaning. The importance came now. "He is Russia, the incarnation of our country. And he has something to tell you." Even the members of the party 'United Russia' muttered loudly, confusion as well and disbelief in every face.

"What is this madness?" one of the men asked, staring at the smiling man supposed to be their… country? "I cannot believe you truly mean this idiocy. A country in human form, or what? You truly think we should believe this?" Ivan simply waited, unconcerned, uncaring, for silence to regain control. He looked like a man with no care in the world, his eyes currently closed and hidden behind that smile. But everyone could still remember the look in those violet orbs.

The silence only slowly came, but when it did Russia opened his eyes, watching the faces in front of him. Then he opened his mouth, words so impossible taking air from those breaths. "Mr. Putin and Mr. Medvedev apparently think you important enough to share this with. I do not understand democracy. It is so _slow_. If everyone should agree with everything, nothing is going to happen. It is so _boring_, da."

Most of them blinked, surprised at the softness of the voice of such a big man as well as the meaning of the words he voiced in the very _hall_ of democracy. A corrupted democracy, yes, but democracy no less. What was this childish man doing here among serious adults supposed to lead the country? They had more important matters to discuss than listening to this!

"Of course," Russia continued, and his movement from when he first arrived to the room was minimal, "I do what Mr. Putin says. So here I am, supposed to convince you to go forward with my plans in all democratic sense. Mr. Stalin and dear Tsar Nikolay were so much easier to talk to. Things were begun nearly instantly after we agreed upon the action supposed to be taken. No matter how you want this done, though, we are going to begin a war."

The silence continued, the disbelief grew. The relationships between Russia and many countries were a bit tense, that was true, but war meant death, devastation and chaos. They all had agreed to at least attempt to keep the peace, no matter how insulting the other countries' actions could be. A war…

"Why are we listening to this?" another politician asked, his gaze turned towards Putin and Medvedev.

"Because he is Russia," Putin answered resignedly, his face looking so tired. "He has the upper hand. Physical injury caused upon him and the actual country reacts. And I can promise you he has no qualms of going through a little pain to get his way. If we go against him we risk the destruction of Moscow and all the other big cities in our land."

New noise, this time yells and shouts, disrupted the silence, the echoes thundering against the walls of the hall and coming back to the mouths with nearly the same strength. _"Insanity!"_, _"This is madness!"_, _"Such powers does not exist!"_ and worse was claimed, though the seriousness of their leaders told them a discouraging truth.

A loud _BANG!_ stopped the shouting, and all eyes turned to smiling man at the front of the hall. A pipe lied in his outstretched hand and had been extended into the wooden wall beside its owner, showing cracks and dents in the fine wood. The smile was still on his face, unwavering, untouched. "Russia is disappointed," he said.

New murmurs began, but a swipe with the iron-pipe caused them to stop. They felt threatened, even if it was nothing but pipe. He had to come in close range to truly endanger them, and yet they all felt uneasy and frightened. As if the mere presence of this man was dangerous. As if he could kill you in less than a glance or put you through great suffering with no remorse. The smile on his face and the light voice only made it all the more worse.

"You do not believe in my authority. How sad. You want proof of my relation with the country. I can give you proof, da! If you want proof, Russia gives proof~" The violet orbs, which had only been partly present, now hid themselves totally, and a moment, a glimpse, of deep sadness crossed the childish face, showing that this man had experienced thousands of years of suffering. And then the most grotesque thing the gathering would ever experience happened. None, not even the two knowing what was about to happen, got time to argue.

Ivan opened his coat the slightest bit, and a still pulsing heart, a heart fitting somewhere in his chest, fell into his hand from beneath its covers. The big man smiled as though he had accomplished a great feat, but the sight caused many of the politicians to double over and spill out the contents of their stomachs.

"Now," the country said, smiling wide as though they were conversing over a cup of coffee, "I want all of you to look carefully. Russia gives proof, da?" His other hand touched the uneven, moving organ, feeling it closely before finally being satisfied. He grabbed a little, tiny part of the red heart between two nails, a microscopic piece, and twisted it.

The building groaned like a monster in pain, and these people were inside its stomach. The cracks Ivan had formerly created in the wood suddenly spread, the walls were leaning first one way, then the other. The earth made a sudden jump and one of the benches was torn apart by an invisible force, the people upon it getting attacked by splinters and stakes, some even getting pierced in the stomach and limbs. After seeing this, seeing the blood, the screams began.

In the midst of the moving, groaning building and the people helplessly seeking for cover, Ivan stood with his broad smile and that little glint in his eyes. The signs of pain were obvious, a little twitching around the eyes, quivering lips, the occasional shudder travelling through his body, but he still continued the movement.

He was first twisting the little part of the heart one way, then another, never so much that the tissue fell apart but just enough to do a little damage. Russia was not afraid of the physical pain. He had experienced a lot of it, and unlike how other people might react these experiences had not made him fear to experience more. These experiences of physical hurt had helped driving him past the brink of insanity, but he did not fear to feel more.

He had learned so long ago that there were more dangerous, more damaging things to fear.

More heartbreaking things you could feel.

The roof had begun to fall down by the time he stopped the personal assault, and the wall on one side of the hall about to tumble to the ground. His smile continued… just continued… as he put the heart inside his chest again and closed the coat. Splinters, blood, bodies of wounded or… or dead laid everywhere; and that for hurting such a small – important, yes, but _small_ – part of his body. Whimpers and moans resounded throughout the place.

The violet orbs watched the destruction around him, not even fazed, and the insanity, the coldness, the frozen bits in those pools, had become more evident. "I do not like to be doubted," he told them calmly, the too childish voice a little more strict as anger edged through it. "And I expect you do it no more. There are some things I will have to have done before the first act of war can begin. All immigrants who are not Russian civilians will have to be caught and confined. The same accounts for people, Russian by birth or no, which have lived in another country for more than a year and has come back for less than three years ago.

Also tourists and journalists from other countries will have to be caught. The journalists are the main targets and will have to be caught before any other. I will not have anyone spread the words of our preparation outside the borders. All this must be done without anyone knowing anything. Any things, like those weird internet-thingies and phones, have to be restricted and kept under control. _No_ word of the beginning of a war must get outside."

The unwounded politicians stared at him with awe as he continued, but no-one dared to say anything.

"Anything else will be done by me and the military. These things are all I am going to ask you, and if anyone of you makes an attempt of stopping me it will be the death of thousands of Russians." The anger that had been rising in his eyes had settled, but the eyes were now brimming of an endless insanity. A dangerous insanity. "Now I will leave you to meet with the generals. You!" He pointed at a random man, causing him to jump in surprise and fear. "Call an ambulance and clean up this mess. Nyet, we cannot let anyone die."

Then he whipped out of the room, striding with long steps and a smile so bright that it could leave a whole room in darkness. He was pleased with his accomplishment, even if he was still confused about that democracy-thing. He was uncertain if he had done it the right way, though…

"Putin…" a man groaned in the midst of the rubble and wood, none of them able to move because of the shock. The man made an acknowledging sound. "What… what was that…?"

"The incarnation of our country, as I told you. All countries have one of their own. Unfortunately theirs are quite stable as sane while Russia… Ivan… He is violent. Had he been human he would be locked up long ago… He is a monster. An abomination. I am proud of my country… but I am not proud of _him_."

* * *

><p>"Have the politicians begun what we asked?" The sweet, nauseating odor of alcohol filled the room like an invisible fog. It was amiss, that vodka-bottle, in the room filled with uniforms and military men.<p>

"Yes. Foreign journalists, tourists and unclarified citizens have been collected. The prime minister of Russia will be speaking of war tonight, and the internet has been limited under the claim of 'redirecting'." A small shuffling of clothes as the men moved. The sound of paper and scribbling, a small scraping of a chair. At one end of the table the air was comfortable and relaxed, but the far end was… tense.

"How many planes have been found? And how many have had to be taken by force?" The bottle of clear fluid was lifted, and the bottom came up when the top came down on a pair of lips.

"We have 1036 planes, inclusive some motor-driven sailplanes and some old models. We have promised a good sum of money, and if more was required we used 'more'. Some of the planes are owned by the government and military, some by civilians, and the last will be hijacked at airports. This autumn snowstorm has proven very useful. No planes are allowed in the air until it is over, so we can take every plane in every airport and use it in our plan."

"Do you have the schedules? About how best to reach the destinations with the range each plane has?" The clear fluid circled around in the bottle. Only a small splash was left at the very bottom, nothing but a single gulp.

There was a small twitch in the corners of a pale man's lips. It was a satisfied twitch, a proud twitch, and the General twirled his moustache, only barely holding off the smile. "Yes. Of course. All targets should be possible to reach at the same time with the amount of planes we have found, as long as we place the gliders on the right locations. The pilots will be told to say and do anything to reach them. As long as this is kept hidden your ambitions will be accomplished."

The already present smile on a pair of lips widened just slightly. The dead, frozen, _insane_, orbs above them glistened in violet, glistened with a burning contentment. "Da, that is good. Tell me when you are ready. Remember to supply with enough bombs. I will take care of the storm when everything is set." New shuffling as paper was collected. The meeting was done.

* * *

><p><em>October 12<em>_th__, somewhere around Strausberg, Berlin, Germany, 6:13 local time_

"Ey, ey, Germanyiii~ Wake uuup, I need youuu… Sleepy…~"

The Italian was on the bed, jumping up and down and up, causing the blond man beneath the white covers to jump with him. There was an annoyed growl, but the bouncing did not stop. With a final growl the big man sat up, admitting defeat, and sighed tiredly when the smaller nation sat still in front of him. "What is it, Italien? And what time is it?" There was a hazy darkness outside, the darkness of October beginning to influence the morning. Winter was coming.

"It is nearly 6. You have been asleep too long and I need yooou!" The smaller one came up closer, pushing his body towards the blond to get a hug. "I-I had a nightmare…" The tone which had been happy just seconds before had became smothered and tainted with sadness and fear, a choked sob destroying the faint whispers. "I… I-I…"

The voice was so broken that Ludwig let his arms fold around the smaller form, feeling how it shook. His shirt became wet where the Italian held his head. The blue eyes became wide, not certain how to react to this kind of emotional outburst but knowing that he needed to help. "Ehm…" Slowly he began to rock the other back and forth soothingly, stroking the other's hair. "Shh… it is okay… You are awake now, ja?"

"N-no… 's not okay… Th-the w-world w-was burning… The-there was a pile of d-dead b-bodies… L-like the KZ's a-after we l-l-lost." A chill rolled down Germany's spine at the mention of his own madness. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell Feliciano not to talk about it, but the shaking, the hiccups, the sobs… the smaller was devastated and needed comfort, not the usual scolding. His own comfort did not matter right now.

So he continued the soothing movements and the rocking, suppressing the tremors of shame and remorse. "It will be okay, Feli, I will not let anything like that happen again… Shh, mein Freund, I will protect you, I always have." It was nothing but murmurs, and yet the German meant it all. Never again, that he had promised. Never again, no matter who was the source, would he let anything like _that_ happen. Not after having been responsible for something like it…

"B-b-but Germaniiiy!" the Italian exclaimed, gripping his shirt tighter and rocking with the bigger man. "I-I… You… The world _burned_. The dead bodies were burning, burning so violentemente, and on the biggest pile of bodies Russia stood, laughing so delirante, but he was crying, and the rest of the world had guns and uniforms and tried to reach him, but he was on top of the pile and…" The Italian's speech got so fast it was nearly impossible to understand him. It was only because of the amount of time that they had known each other that Ludwig was able to understand anything.

"… and he was inside block of ice, and the world burned and it was caotico and the rest of the world was getting burned, too, and the ice melted and Russia began burning and screaming and you… and you… you…"

"And I…?" Germany asked helpfully, padding his back and stroking his hair as well as his giant hands could.

Feliciano sniffed a bit, but only managed to calm himself down for a second. "You…" That single word brought the crying came back tenfold. "Y-you burned. Y-you are the m-most importante in mia vita (my life) a-and you… e-even before the rest of the world came to st-stop Russia you…" His cries had become much wilder now that he had told.

Germany shook his head and pulled the other's body away from his own. The tears had drained him so much that even though Italy tried to hold on and cling closely to him he was too weak to even put up a fight. The blond nation gently made Feliciano's chin rest in his palm, pulling their faces closely together. "Breathe, Feli. Nice and slowly."

The smaller nation nodded still with tears on his cheeks and took a few deep inhales, slowly calming down.

"Good." Their faces were dangerously close as Ludwig held the smaller nation in place, trying to bring the calm in his eyes into the soul of the other. "You listen closely." It was said in a mix of an order and a plea. He was concerned, deeply concerned, but Germany was not very emotional and he was certainly no therapist. He was a soldier, in and out, and a soldier with authority. "It was a dream. I am here, right here, and I have been here all the time. Watch."

His free hand lifted itself from his thigh where it formerly had been, lifted itself and ended upon the Italian's face, gracing over his cheek in a very light touch to remove the tears. Then it fell again, holding on to the Italian's hand, giving it a small, concerned squeeze. When Feliciano nodded Ludwig let go of the other's chin and placed his big hand on the frail shoulder in front of him, a smile coming upon his face.

"The world is still here. Nothing has burned. No mass murder has been committed. There are not piles of dead bodies everywhere. Look outside." He turned his gaze to the window where the sun lit the trees, the first of the golden orb's shining head rising in the horizon. Its rays painted the outside autumn white and golden, the red and bronze leaves on the trees shining more brilliantly as though they were made of rubies and golden coins, the road and clouds were yellow and clear, the very air made of silver crystals.

It was beautiful, especially for an artist, and Ludwig got his wish when a smile spread on the face of his small friend and erased the former sadness and fear. Nothing could throw that idiot off balance for too long – had it been any different Ludwig would have died of emotional outbursts already, both the ones brimming over with happiness and the ones that were sad. This was a special case, though, as the sad ones normally concerned lost kittens or a hurt toe.

"You are right, Germanyii!" he said, as though the whole world had become sunflowers and warm- oh, wait, wrong character, rewinding! – as though the whole world had become bright and happy again. He jumped off the bed, making the blond bounce up and down on the mattress. Ludwig took his hand to his forehead and began to wonder what had made him comfort the other. Feliciano was so much quieter when he was sad, and it was still morning.

"Alright," he finally said, standing from the bed. "I am going to make breakfast. Want some Wurst?" The Italian nodded and bounced through the door, and when it took Germany more than a second to follow he bounced back, looking very impatient. "Ja, I am on my way," the German answered irritated, annoyed by the unspoken questions.

Feliciano felt no such thing, though, and just danced around him like he was some kind of early Christmas-tree. "No, I did not think that. Vee~, Germany, you are so tight." A slight blush flustered the face of the German but he ignored it, beginning to walk out the door with the bouncy Italian following. "But you also sleep late today. Why? You sick?"

The worry in the voice made som of the regret from comforting the Italian. "Nein. Gilbert and I were out drinking yesterday in Berlin. I have a bit of a hangover, so I would not mind you to keep your voice down a bit." The green eyes widened a bit, actually showing their color, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to tell the blond he had got the message. This caused another sigh to escape the lips of the German. The other would be talking again in less than a minute.

They went down the stairs of the small house and entered the living room. Ludwig was in front, the red color finally leaving his face. The couch of the living room sent out a penetrating snoring, and Ludwig sighed in annoyance for what felt like the hundredth time today. He moved closer to the piece of furniture and gripped the back of it, forcing it upwards and tilting it. A loud yell replaced the sound of sleeping as something – _someone_ – fell to the floor.

"'Ey!" A shaggy bundle of clothes, white hair and red eyes fell from the comfortable safety of the plush. "Oy, oy, _West_!" Gilbert snapped, sounding like his little brother had just given him the biggest insult in the world. He eyes were raging, the sand of sleep still in their corners. "Why did you do that? Arschloch!" The former nation kicked out for his brother, but unfortunately for him there was a couch between them.

Ludwig moved around the couch and grabbed his kin, helping him to his feet despite the pouting and occasional outburst in both words and body. "Please watch the language, Ost. Do you want breakfast?" At the promise of food the more primitive nation brightened up, and Ludwig contained a sudden urge to roll his eyes. "What were you doing on the couch, anyway? It is just twelve steps up the stair up your bedroom."

And then the pouting was back. "Do you doubt my intelligence?" he asked snappily.

Ludwig contained a sudden chuckle and smiled at the smaller big brother. "Of course I am not." How he loved that idiot, despite how troublesome he always was. His eyes turned to the Italian behind him, and he found himself wonder how he ended up with the noisy, stupid ones. "I would _never_ believe the _awesome_ you would do anything without a reason." He knew why his brother had not come any further. The albino had gotten more beers than he had.

Very few people were able to make Ludwig use sarcasm, but Gilbert was one of those few. To the rest of the world's nations the German was a strict and determined man who, weirdly enough, was always accompanied by one of the Italians. Ludwig suppressed another smile and continued to the kitchen, ignoring the annoyed growls coming from his brother's lips. Gilbert was stupid to a certain point and did not understand some things, but he was also a user of sarcasm.

Ludwig moved to the fridge and found some eggs and sausages – or Wurst in his own language. Then he found a frying pan made of steel and poured the necessary oils and fats into it. Hearing his noise and smelling his cooking the seven four-legged residents of the house entered the kitchen, crowding around the stove. The six-year-old German Shepherd decided to go to the Italian, though, and get her ear scratched by the small nation on the chair.

"Can we have tomatoes, too?" Feliciano asked and then began to laugh when the ten-year-old Great Dane took its head onto the kitchen table, hunting a single, tiny sausage which had fled both the pan and the bag. Gilbert, who had just entered the kitchen with a yawn and a stretch, laughed too when he saw the slobber threatening to fall on the wood.

It was in the last second Germany got the dog away, saving its snout from getting burned on the pan as well as the kitchen table from the drool. But he had only just got the giant monster of mouth water away when the wooden surface got attacked by the giant monster of butts. "What did I tell you about sitting on the tables?" he scolded his big brother and glared when the answer he got from the assaulter was a smirk. He sighed. This was apparently the great day of sighs.

"Tooomaaatoooes!" Feliciano complained, and Germany muffled another sigh of annoyance.

"Ja, ja, tomatoes, you will get your tomatoes," he muttered and went for the kitchen once more, letting the pan sizzle on its own. One and a half steps away from the stove he nearly fell to the floor, jumping to the side so he would not trip on the smallest dog in the house, the Dachshund. "Scheiss Tier, (shitty animal)" he muttered, regaining his balance by gripping on to the side of the table Italy was sitting by. More laughter sounded. "Gilbert… Mind to feed the dogs?"

The laughter disappeared from Gilbert's face when he lifted himself off the kitchen table and placed his feet on the ground once more. "Alright, alright. Why do you have so many dogs anyway?" he growled angrily, finding seven bowls on the shelves and filled each with its own kind of dog food. Germany did not care to answer as he began chopping the newly found tomatoes and got them ready for the pan. "Is a fetish or something? _I_ only have _one_ bird."

"And no kindness at all!" Feliciano exclaimed, his whole face sincere and grinning. The grinning had to stop at the sight of the acid in Gilbert's glare and the Italian hid behind the German Shepherd he had been smothering love all over as if he feared the albino would throw the whole kitchen at him while he shrieked "save me, Eika!"

Germany did not even look up at the sound of the two. His brother would often lose his temper when Feliciano mindlessly opened his mouth, and he hoped the scolding he would throw at the former nation afterwards was enough for him to keep his head. "Ready?" he asked instead, and the albino hummed in agreement. "_Reihe!_(Row)" It was the voice of the general – a military order, refusing to be crossed. And yet he simply concentrated on the pan, turning the sausages.

All the dogs lifted their heads, their ears rising. Then they moved to the wall and sat down in a line, facing the kitchen table and holding their head high and proudly. Like soldiers they sat with their snouts pointing forward, ready to follow the next order. Watching Germany commanding his dogs around was always a fabulous scene, and Italy was not even sad the dog 'Eika' left his side as he followed the scene with his eyes.

The dogs had placed themselves in order, the eldest at the far right and the youngest at the left. First the Great Dane, ten years on its graying back, then a Boxer of seven, Italy's favorite Shepherd of six years, then the five-years-old Shepherd and then yet another Boxer of three, the Dachshund of 2 and finally the nine-month-old child of Eika. Not a tail twitched and only the ears of the puppy turned at the sounds in the house.

They were like robots and did not even keep an eye on Gilbert when he put the bowls down in front of them. At the clatter of the food pills Gilbird flew in to the room, chirping happily. It sat itself on Gilberts head, waiting for the next order. The routine of the house had yet to be broken. "Ready," Gilbert announced, petting the bird fondly.

The blond German nodded but had yet to go to the next stage. The dogs still sat motionlessly, the bird trembled in anticipation and Italy began bouncing in his chair in boredom. It was first when the puppy began to sniff due to the impatience of the youth and Gilbird began to scold Ludwig in chirpish that he gave the order. "_Essen!_(Eat / to eat)"

It was like watching a group of synchronized swimmers. The dogs dived into the food, eating with a varied amount of speed. The little, yellow ball of chirping fluff fluttered in happiness before it made a controlled fall to the floor and jumped over beside the Great Dane, plucking into the food like it was part of the pack. And it certainly was.

Germany scooped the food off the pan and over to three pairs of plates. He handed one over to Feliciano and placed the other by the two unoccupied chairs of the table. Scrambled eggs and sausages with a tomato on the side, perfectly spiced with salt and pepper. It did not take long before all of them sat ready.

Eating, on the other hand, took a long time. It had to when you ate with Prussia and Italy. They were talking, Italy said something stupid, Prussia felt insulted and had to threaten back, Italy hid behind the dogs (who had gotten done eating and were sitting and waiting to be taken on their walks) begging them to save him from the angry albino, and when it got too heated Germany said a few raging words and they sat back down and relaxed only to let the scenery start all over again.

The blond finally lost patience in their stupid acts and left the table under the claim that he had to walk the dogs – which was a truthful claim. They had to be walked and were watching him with suppressed excitement, waiting for the daily routine to continue and for the German to find the leashes and be done with the breakfast.

The talk suddenly quieted since the person Italy had talked to all the while had been Ludwig. The blond and his order was now gone. The Italian feared the blond's older brother and was only in the German house if the younger resident was present. Ludwig had some weird power over the wild and troublemaking albino so that the older was less violent. Now Ludwig was gone, and Gilbert sat on the other side of the table with a smirk on his face.

When there was no dog-food to eat Gilbird had come back to his owner and found a place on his shoulder, happily voicing its latest adventure with the Great Dane. The blood-red eyes watched Feliciano, the Italian already shivering in fear. "You know what time it is?" he asked, standing slowly from the chair, a mischievous aura swirling around him.

Feliciano stood, too, but unlike the former nation he was ungraceful and rushed. The chair banged to the floor, pushed away by the back of his knees. He was nearly crying already and the man in front of him had yet to even make a move. "N-no, Mr. Prussia, I-I-I do n-not…" The voice was choked and forced and the Italian, who normally had no ability to read the mood, was wishing he had never said it. He knew, somehow he knew those words opened the door to torment.

Prussia's smirk widened a bit more and as the bird felt the mood the yellow fluff began watching the Italian with a pair of evil, black, tiny eyes. "It is 'kick-a-crybaby'-time." He lunged forward, onto the table and beyond, and Italy shrieked and cried like the crybaby he was claimed to be, running into the living room. Gilbird was chirping wildly, and since it was not slowed by the need of avoiding furniture or touching the ground it flew in front and attacked.

"Hiiiiy," Italy shrieked and protected his head with his arms as he ran, trying and failing to avoid the yellow bird's sharp claws and beak. Gilbert was right behind him, laughing like a maniac and having the fun of his month. The chase continued for nearly twenty minutes before Feliciano managed to get around the albino and out the front door, the only unlocked exit. Now that there were no obstacles he ran as only an Italian is able to, fleeing at the speed of light.

Prussia watched the other nation for a moment, his lovely bird flying around him and chirping with its high-pitched voice and telling its owner that it had a lot of fun. The albino, though, kept looking in the direction the Italian had ran, back towards his warmer, safer country, a twinge of sadness pressed onto his wild self. Prussia did not know if it was because his toy had left… or because of how he had treated the toy…

He sighed and shook his head, forcing the feelings away. He was who he was and had been so through his whole life, from his birth somewhere near the 7th century to the present. Why should he want to change now? Just because the world had changed did not mean he had to. Besides, this supposed 'democratic' and 'modern' world was going to fall sometime, anyway. The Ancient Greek had, the Roman Empire had, Grandpa had – nothing in this world lasted forever, and the nations were even divided into separate countries and not a single state, a single person. The more people, the more trouble.

When this current world fell he would get his comeback. And he would have Ludwig with him.

He shook his head once more, forcing these idiotic thoughts out. When had he become such a prissy thinky-thingy? He had not been around Austria enough for him to rub off. Damn civilization and its theoretical supremacy.

He went back inside and into the living room, throwing himself onto the couch he had formerly slept on and turned on the TV. Another device the world should be without, damn America and his lazy ass. People should be out kicking ass with their swords, not sit on their butts and play erudite in front of desks and grow fat by working on unnecessary stuff.

His eyes turned to the clock and he frowned. First of all; how had the time reached 10:30? Second of all; why was he awake at this time? Unawesome Italian and stupid Ludwig taking away his awesome sleep. He should be sleeping. Now he would go back to sleep and stop watching that stupid, unawesome American TV-show.

He turned off the device, cuddled up closer to the yellow bird and closed his eyes, sighing and waiting for the thoughts to leave him. He did not get to do that when a sudden noise from the outside made the walls clatter. He sat up straight, the old reactions to war canons and battle-cries flaring. He threw his head around, searching for the assaulter, and found it out of the window. A plane, flames flaring on its one wing. It headed for Berlin, and it was going down fast.

His eyes went wide at the sight. The pilot held the plane upright, going closer and closer to the capital. The flames on the wing brightened the gray autumn sky, a Hell-bird of metal going towards its nest. In pure frustration Gilbert threw the remote at the plane, making the plastic bounce off the window and leaving a recess in the glass. "Was zum Teufel machst du da, du Hurensohn? (What the Hell are you doing, you son of a bitch?)" he screamed, utterly terrified. Pilots were supposed to lead the plane away from cities, right? Why was the plane continuing?

The flaming machine came out of sight, still going for the capital of the country, and it did not take long before Gilbert doubled over, a sudden pain in his stomach feeling as if he had been hit by a fist of iron. He forced himself upright, his balance failing due to the nauseating pain. The albino spat at the window and hit it right where the remote had made a hole. He was angry… no, angry was not even the right word. „Ficke Abschaum! (Fucking scum!)"

He was about to curse on when the most horrific thought he had ever had in his entire, half-immortal life reached his mind, and his body went cold in shock. The words on his tongue fell back through his throat and ended in his stomach, and there they began to grow in both shape and weight. _If I am feeling this bad, then how…?_ He could not even end the thought. Despite the pain still spreading in his stomach he wobbled to the door and threw it open.

He straightened his legs, forced his knees to support his weight. Still clenching the frame of the door for support he turned his head from one side to the other, his eyes wide and even welling up with tears. Last time Prussia had cried he had been about fifty years old and Grandpa Germania had taken away his sword for killing a kitten. This situation…

This situation was very, very different.

He pushed the frame away from him and ran through the small garden and out to the road, but he did not know which way he should go… Then he heard what he had feared. The sound of dogs frightened out of their wits, whining and howling and barking. Even though his whole body was still shaking in shock and pain his legs carried him towards the sound, running at a speed he had never done before. His insides were twisting around, and the pain was not the cause.

There! A crowd of people had already assembled, but one had at least taken out a phone and was calling an ambulance. He tackled a man to get through and sent an elbow in a woman's ribs to make her move away. He could hear the distinguished sound of Adelgisa's growls, the weird hiccups of the old, half-blind dog normally making him laugh and tease his younger brother. Now every choked snarl cut into his soul knowing that the Great Dane was not playing this time.

Gilbert flew past a man only to be stopped by a hand gripping his elbow. "Halten!(Wait!)" the man he just had pushed to the side said, a light panic in his voice. "Die Hunde beißen!(The dogs bite!)" He had only just shut his mouth when his cheek was backhanded.

"Fick dich!(Fuck you!)" Gilbert all but screamed, and had it not been for his face the man and all of the other people around would have hated him or at least be angered. But they could not. Helplessness was written in his face, tears fell from his eyes like rain and his mouth shivered in desperation. And his eyes none of them were able to look at. They showed his age, for once they showed the thousand years he had lived, showed the hundreds of years he had been fighting and experienced the pain, the torture and the psychological strain of being a country.

For Gilbert knew. Oh, he knew so well. For if he could feel an assault of the German country like that… if he could feel the pain so hard and react on it so _physical_… Then Ludwig had to be on the verge of death.

Turning around to see his little brother was incredibly easy. You would think the fear he felt made him hesitate, but a nation knew fear and knew what happened if you gave in to it. And this knowing made him turn around. What it did not, though, was make him ready for the sight that met him.

His little brother, always the unwavering soldier, was lying on his hands and knees, one hand clenching his stomach painfully. His normally pale skin was an eerie grey with sweat making his so neat hair stick to his face and colored it a shade several times too dark to be his wheaten strands. He was shivering and… and blood was everywhere.

The albino made a move towards him, but an angry growl from the two Boxers made him halt for the tiniest bit. The dogs had formed the Schutzring, the protective circle around something precious. But it was simply fear he felt, so he just walked forward again, determination in his teary face, and when the two dogs got ready to jump he lifted his hands at them like Germany would have. "Nein, Clovis, Harris. _Legen_(Lay)!" And the dogs lay down as ordered. This was a great feat. The dogs felt the same about him as Italy did.

Having felt the authority around the albino the other dogs relaxed slightly and Gilbert strode past them and over to his brother, falling to his knees and laying a hand on his shoulder. And then wished he never had. The temperature of Ludwig's skin was flaring in heat only to fall down to what felt like below freezing and then go up again. The shivers suddenly became even worse before his body began cramping violently and he retched. There was nothing but blood coming out of him mouth.

New, fresh, red blood.

So it was there the giant pool of blood came from. Not very reassuring.

"Wer sind Sie?(Who are you?)" the man he had just hit asked.

"Sein große Bruder.(His big brother)" He nearly choked on the words but kept control. How was it you dealt with accidents now? An ambulance, yes, you called an ambulance… He looked up and found a woman talking into one of those stupid plastic-thingies, telling something inside it the name of the street and which corner they were on, using a voice filled with forced calm. Ambulance. Ambulance on the way. Help on the way.

At the sound of his voice Ludwig's head raised and he formerly unfocused eyes forced themselves to find him. "O-Ost, bist du da?(East, are you there?)" His voice was so weak it felt as though the acid in his stomach had seared the soldier out of it. That voice was made to order, to lead and control, not to plead for someone to control him.

Gilbert had not time to answer him, though, when new cramps attacked his brother's body and forced a new liter of blood out of his mouth. Without any hesitation or any remorse he wiped the blood off the corners of Ludwig's mouth with the back of his hand and then wiped that blood away in his trousers. The action caused a strained smile to appear on Ludwig's face as if simple touches was all he needed to know it was his brother. "Italien…"

"Auf dem Heimweg.(On his way home.)" The smile became a little less strained at that news. Of course he worried if the Italian knew. Had Feliciano still been present and known this he would be wailing. Sad, fearing for the blond's life, like Gilbert was doing. But the Italian would panic, and Germany never wanted the idiot to be sad or worried. "Du bist zu gütig.(You are too kind.)" Too kind for the Italian. Too kind for the world…

Too kind for Gilbert.

"Hilfe ist auf dem Weg,(help is on its way)" he promised, petting the bigger man's hair like he was a child again, just a little, innocent boy. "Mach dir keine Sorgen.(Do not worry)" He got a simple nod in answer. The shivering form leaned over towards him and he folded his arms around him, trying to give him the comfort he needed.

"G-Gilbert… Bruder?" The albino hummed, stroking his back kindly. "Würdest du… würdest du herausfinden… was passiert? Und nicht nur hier?(Will you find out… what happened? And not just here?)"

"Nicht nur hier?" Gilbert asked in wonder. The sirens of an ambulance were blaring around the corner while the albino frowned more and more. Not just here? Not just here…?

"Ja…" the blond man said, his voice slowly fading into nothing. "Ja… … Nicht nur hier…"

* * *

><p><em>October 12<em>_th__, Military Base, somewhere in Colorado, U.S.A. 3:54 local time_

It was a normal and quiet early morning at the US military base. It was about 4 am. The base was quiet and nearly deserted, most soldiers were sleeping, and a few were doing important things like certain repairs and watching over screens, keeping the base safe from possible – but unlikely – invaders. Paul leaned back in his chair, still recovering from his too large, too early breakfast. His job was currently doing the watching. A monitor showing the airspace surrounding the base sat in his front, turning and turning and turning.

A beep suddenly disrupted the peace. He started from his waken slumber, turning his gaze to the screen. He frowned and turned away, looking at one of his fellow soldiers. "There is a plane. Are any planes scheduled to pass over today?" he mumbled, nearly unheard.

"What?" he colleague said, and Paul repeated a bit louder. The other frowned and pulled out the drawers of his desk, finding a folder with papers. Looking it over, he rolled his chair over to a computer, tapping in codes and numbers on the keyboard. He pursed his lips and narrowed when he finally found the result of his search and turned back towards his friend. "No. Not before 06:23." A small tinge of panic was in the voice. "Where does it come from?"

"The west. And it is heading right for us."

"The first plane should pass over from south east, and it should keep a distance of four miles." It was odd. "What plane is it? What signal does it send out?"

Now it was Paul's turn to work the machines and a number flashed over the screen of his own computer. "It is a public plane, a normal charter." Knowing this did not make them feel any better, but there was no reason to panic. "I will try to establish radio contact. Call Captain Jeoffrey and get him over here." The man nodded, but Paul did not even see it. He put on his headgear and called. "Plane NP 32, confirm destination and place of departure, please."

He was met by silence, and that crawling feeling running up his back got worse. Beside him the colleague was speaking into a walkie-talkie, but he had also heard the silence. It was a public plane, and if they shut down a public plane it would become a scandal… but uncontrolled planes were dangerous. The experiences of 9/11 had proven that.

"Plane NP 32, confirm destination and place of departure, please," he repeated when the tension got too much for him. The silence was nearly unbearable, and Paul jumped in his seat when the Captain arrived with a noise from the door.

"What is the problem?" the tall new-comer asked, getting a worried expression on his face at the awkward unease plastered on both men's faces. Then his eyes turned to the monitor showing how the strange plane was getting closer and closer. "What is that?"

"A plane," Paul stated the obvious, but did try not to sound disrespectful. "It is not on the schedule, and has yet to respond to our calls. But the real problem is that… it is public. A charter airplane and it is probably filled with tourists. But if they will not answer… it could be that their radio is broken, or…" Or something worse.

The uneasiness spread to the Captain's face, too. How should you react on such a situation? Risk the reputation of the Army by shooting down a plane filled with civilians? No matter how much they claimed the captain was at fault, it was them who shot the missiles. So… how to fix this? "Continue trying to establish radio-contact," he finally said.

Paul nodded and pushed the button once again, leaning over to the microphone once more. "Plane NP 32, confirm destination and place of departure. Answer quickly." Silence once more. God, this was unnerving. The plane continued to move closer and closer. The two privates turned their gazes to their Officer, but Captain Jeoffrey was also at a loss. They… they could not just attack a plane like that.

A phone rang. All of them jumped and turned towards the sound before the other private lifted the receiver just after the second ring. "Hello. Yes, that is confirmed…" The man's eyes flickered in a moment of unease before he handed the phone over towards Jeoffrey. "It is for you, Captain."

As soon as the man had the device he his ears the other end started talking. "Captain Jeoffrey Cane… Do you mean like…? A moment," he said and gave the other private a silent order to turn on the speakers. He let the handset fall from his ear. "We have just recorded a stray plane," he informed the device. "Is this the kind of odd situation you are speaking of?" Paul glanced up at his captain before turning to the microphone and retried establishing connection.

"… _Yes, exactly,_" a female voice answered, a slight panic rising in her voice. "_We are experiencing the same. What kind of plane is it?_" Like themselves, she was trying to keep calm, but two military bases the same situation at the same time – and a possibly dangerous situation, too – was very frightening.

"An airline charter. From the…" he glanced at the monitor. "From the west, and it has yet to respond. And what is the one you are met with?" Speaking with someone… actually feeling like you were doing _something_… helped the Captain's unease, and his body was slowly beginning to untense.

"NP 32, do you copy?" Paul attempted once more. No answer.

"_The same. An Airbus charter, from the west, and it has not answered any of our calls. We better get ready to fire, just in case._" Someone actually saying this made Jeoffrey nod, accept it might be necessary.

He found his walkie and took it to his mouth. "Alexander, command the guns ready to fire at the west. We have an unknown intruder plane. Await further orders." He let the walkie-talkie fall under his coat and turned back to the phone. "Is it possible that this is a drill made from the government?" he asked the speaker.

There was a short silence. "_… It might be,_" the woman agreed. Before she could say anymore Jeoffrey had turned to the other soldier, whom until now had done nothing but to watch the exchange with uneasiness.

"Contact the government and be quick about it. I do not know how long we have before the plane is within range. We may not have enough time." He then turned to Paul, and the reason we he was a rising Officer began to shine through the slight fear. "Try once more. Warn them that we will shoot if they do not turn away."

Paul nodded slightly, sending a prayer to the Lord that it would end without blood. "NP 32, if you do not answer or diverse your course we will shoot for you. Do you understand?"

"_We have contact,_" the woman on the phone suddenly said, a small trait of relief in her voice. "_They have promised to swerve around our base. The plane is moving away now._" Jeoffrey untensed a bit more before answering.

"Good. We will attempt the same thing. If they do not move or answer, though, we _will _shoot."

"_I understand,_" was all the answer he got before a crackling of some bigger speakers resounded in the room.

A whoosh of relief came over them, the exact same feeling that had been in the voice of the woman at the other base. "NP 32, do you copy?"

Crackling… "_Yes… on't shoot…_" More crackling. As Paul had hoped the entire time it seemed the problem was the radio, not the man controlling the plane. "_… Desdenation is Chi…-go. Dje'par'ture from-…_" They did not catch the last part, but the relief made it not mattering. They did not have to shoot someone, especially not a public plane.

"You have to turn around. We cannot let you pass over the base," Paul informed, and the speakers crackled in response. It crackled a few times, crackled some more, but it did not answer with words.

"We have contact too," Jeoffrey announced to the woman, a small hope flaring up in his chest. "Stay on the line. We may need you again." He found the walkie again and got ready to either order them to shoot or not, but his eyes were on the monitor, waiting for the next answer. They nearly felt safe again already.

Another crackle and then the line became clear. "_… an't do dat._" Now that there was no noise a very heavy accent showed in the voice on the other end. None of them were able to recognize it, too dazed in the relief of having contact. "_I 'have nod enoff fuel to reach, so I straied from dje paff to fin' another port. We 'ill crash if we don't fin' a place safe to landd._" A new wave of panic came over them. "_I've some Am'merican dourists o'board._"

And then the panic got worse. Paul's eyes flashed over to Jeoffrey's before going back, finding what he feared in the man's eyes. As the Captain told last man in the room that they would not need the government anyway Paul explained. "We are sorry but you cannot land here. You have to turn away." The plane was getting closer and closer, but this was a military facility with machinery and weapons. They could not let any outsiders come in… even if it was crashing.

"… _A'right… Kan I passh ovar you, djen? To spare dje fuel? Djen I may get ovar to dje nekst 'port._" There was a small silence, and then Jeoffrey sighed, not finding a problem with it. It was an urgent situation with people's lives on the line, and so even if they were unable to help they could at least give permission to that.

"Yes, I, Captain Jeoffrey Cane, give you permission to fly over our base," the Captain personally came over to say before he moved over to the phone again. He pressed the button on the walkie and took it to his mouth, feeling how even breathing got easier. "Call it off, Alexander. False alarm." The answer he received from the walkie was not kind.

About another minute or two passed with occasional exchange of words when noise began to form on the other end of the phone. Panicking voices came out of the speakers and a new wave of unease settled in the pits of their stomachs. "_It swerved back! When did it swerve back?_" It was the female, sounding like she was far away from the microphone.

"_I do not know… Oh god, when did it get this close? Get the cannons back up again!_"

"_Captain Jeoffrey!_" the voice of the woman said. It was closer this time, very close. Fear filled the voice… So much fear. "_Get it down, get it down now-!_"

A scream stopped her words, as well as a loud noise. There was a blast nearly ripping the speakers apart, the sound of things flying into walls or smashing into pieces, the last few noises of humans before their lives ended. And then… Beeping as the phone lost connection. A silence so ear-piercing that the small beeps became a relief, but also a silence so heartbreaking when you knew what it meant. When you knew that lives had ended…

The soldiers at this base, though, had no time to feel devastated. The Captain grabbed the walkie-talkie once more, screaming new orders into it to get the cannons back and ready and shoot them down, Paul contacted the plane once more and demanded in a voice filled with strained calm that the plane had to turn around and the last man in the room ran for the door, damning the rest to Hell as long as he could survive.

"Alexander, get the cannons ready, _canons ready_."

"I demand you to turn away, and do it now-"

"No, this is not a false alarm-"

A plane got in sight in the window turning towards the west, its white hull promising destruction and death.

"'_Pre'sent from Rossija_," the radio said just as something dark fell out from the side of the white monster, falling towards the ground just 40 feet from the tower where they sat, falling directly towards the tanks and cars residing on the grounds. And then the plane was gone, flying over their heads with enormous speed, the sound a roar of massive, working engines.

"Russia?" Paul mumbled to himself just before the bomb hit the ground and the windows blasted, small splinters of glass raining over them and cutting into their skin and clothes and faces. The shockwave and fire made the tower tumble down and the machinery outside explode, everything turned around, the monitors and computers sparking when they were forced from their sockets and straining their wires, making them burst and creating even more fire.

Paul screamed as he flew through the air along with the machinery, chairs, _walls_. He screamed and screamed, feeling as though his lungs were bursting as he screamed, but he could not stop. He screamed… but he could not hear the scream. Blood poured out of his ears, fell over his face, but he could not hear his scream. He only _knew_ he screamed.

Then the roof finally fell down upon him and the world was black.

* * *

><p><em>October 12th<em>_, somewhere in the wild, Zürich See, Switzerland, 10:24 local time_

The weather was surprisingly good.

It was October and yet the sun was shining and there were not a single cloud in the sky. The water of the lake was calm and beautiful, glittering slightly in the sun like small pearls. Liechtenstein could remember when she had been by the lake at this very spot for some 70 or 80 years ago on a day just like this. The pearls had glittered then, too and she and Vash were still just about to get close. She had asked him if he would make a necklace of those pearls.

He had never answered, but it was one of the few times he had smiled. She knew he had been amused. She knew he had been fascinated by her thoughts. She knew he loved her fantasy. She knew he loved her beauty. She knew he loved how she smiled, how she walked, how she talked. How she would laugh when he was funny even if no-one else would.

She knew she was the most precious thing in his life.

It was a very great responsibility to be everything in someone else's life, but her brother meant a lot to her too, so she wanted to do it for him. She had never met a more lonely soul than her brother. She had learned to get to him, found out how each feeling looked on his impassive face. How he was when he was happy. How the smile was in the corner but not let past. How he even let the good feelings get concealed or destroyed when they tried to break his cover.

She liked when he was happy, and she liked when he actually let the happiness flow into smiles and the occasional chuckle. What she hated, on the other hand, was when he was sad. When the hurtful feelings he was filled with forced themselves past his defenses and into his heart, into the place where they could actually touch him. His face froze and he became a statue of cold, gray stone. He was more silent than normally, and since he never talked that was _bad_. His eyebrows, the most expressive things on his face, no longer twitched to tell her he was listening, to tell her he was seeing… to tell her he was _living_.

Yes, how she hated it.

The time when he was most expressive was when he was angered. His whole face would move, his mouth would be pressed tightly together in the few seconds that went before his started yelling and his eyes would change from relaxed to a fierce change between tensely narrowed and dangerously widened. His brows would press together and cause a crevasse in his smooth forehead. It was not bad when he was angry, though. He was never angry with her, and he would calm down the very second she said his name. When she was there the anger was short-lived.

It had taken years for her to understand the sparse body language he used, but it took even longer to gain his trust. And even without trusting her he had protected her against everything. He saved her after WWI and treated her more kindly and with greater care than anyone else she had known. All she really wanted was to see him live, as Hungary lived, as America lived. To see him enjoy life and not seclude himself and only agreeing to do anything with the other countries if his people voted for it.

She wanted to know what had caused him to be like this. The only thing keeping her from doing this was the fact that she feared the answer. All the nations had their baggage, and many of them a baggage so heavy that they had moments of wavering. Liechtenstein was only a small and young country of 300 years, with about 200 of those being an actual nation and life had yet to be _that_ hard on her, but she was not stupid. Not in the least.

It required a lot from her to try and ask him. She had managed to get her courage up a few times, but whenever she took that deep breath and built up everything she needed an alarm in Bern blew off and Vash was needed or an Italian came running through the country with no pants on. It was like one of those bad movies where someone tried to tell their beloved one how much they loved them but a lot of stupid incidents came in between the words.

Except that she did not love her brother in that way, and what they would not begin some kind of perfect tale with a happy ending but rather risk their friendship.

The subject of her thoughts was currently lying on his back and enjoying the lake with her. On her request, of course, but the small softening around his eyes when she asked had showed her he was truly happy about her attempt of contact. He loved to be out in nature, but his work in the government made the time he had in the wild very sparse. She had heard that he had, in the olden days, lived all alone in the middle of the forest and only came to the leaders of The Old Swiss Confederacy or the later alliances between the Swiss cantons when he felt danger approaching.

But this was about all she knew of his past – under what circumstances he lived. Now he had moved close to Bern so he could arrive at the Federal Palace within an hour. But the Zürich See had always been her, and therefore also Vash', favorite place to relax. When he had finally agreed to go on a trip and take a break from his constant working she had said they would go there. It was a lakeside filled with memories, just as the water was filled with pearls.

This was how they had ended up lying here, her staring down at the water, him watching the abnormally clear sky. It was so warm and comfortable despite the autumn month. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he laid there, the evergreen uniform dampened straight and his white hat lying beside him like a small flower of snow white petals. He was so soft, he felt so real, when he was here. It was him, her caring, slightly awkward brother, not the defensive person he was whenever _people_ were around.

She smiled and took his hand in hers by instinct. As expected his body tensed for a moment, but when he turned his gaze to her the awkwardness disappeared from his mind. She was smiling at him. Small softening around his eyes, slight rising of the corners of his mouth. This was what you could call a smile in his case. "Du schuldest mir noch die Halsschmuck,(you still owe me that necklace)" she said, and when the confusion passed his mind and he remembered their conversation from many year past the playful twinkle hidden only for her reached his eyes.

"Ich habe Ihnen bereits so viele gegeben, aber wenn du wirklich willst, kann ich dir in den See werfen. Dann kannst du es selbst finden. (I have given you a lot already, but if you truly want that one I can throw you in the lake. Then you can find it yourself)" He jumped to his feet faster than she was able to feel the 'danger' and took his arms around her waist. He then lifted her off the ground and carried her towards the lake, making her scream in mock-fright and ringing laughter.

She tried to fight him off and even if he held her gently the grip was too strong for her to get loose. They neared the edge of the lake dangerously fast. Her shrill laughter had quieted the animals around them and she was still shaking with chuckles when he set her down in knee-deep, cold water, only fulfilling his threat half-way. The lowest part of her rose colored dress swished over the water when she turned to him, still smiling, and her happiness only increased at the sight of his awkward but small smile.

When she pulled him into a hug she made sure he did not notice how she unpocketed her mobile and threw it in the green grass a few meters away. The hug ended after a few seconds when Vash pushed her backwards gently, the smile slowly fleeing his face, but Lichtenstein certainly was not going to let that happen. She danced a few steps around him, coming closer to shore but in a way that looked innocent to him, and then shoved him with all her might.

His eyes widened and his eyebrows cringed in surprise as he fought to keep his balance. "Merda!(Shit!)" he cursed in Italian when he began to fall, and even Lily took a few steps forward when her push met less resistance than expected. Two small steps of hers later a loud splash was heard and she laughed hard and out loud once more, the bells hiding in her chest ringing too serenely for her vicious act of pushing her brother into the water.

The laughter was soon caught short when something, most likely Vash' armored foot, found the back of her one knee. It pushed her to sideward and made her fall in the water. She felt the soft, muddy earth beneath her shoulder and legs and took a breath of water in surprise, causing her to begin to coughs. Pushing upwards again to breathe she choked in a mix of laughter and coughs, her whole body shaking in pure happiness and bliss.

Beside her the Swiss resurfaced, laughing his rare, rough, barking laugh, too, and then tumbled her over, wrestling her in the few centimeters of water at the lakeside. When he could hear she had coughed enough and was able to breathe properly he began tickling her like was she a child. Her body twisted under his hands, her fingers trying to grab his wrists and stop him from doing it, but all attempts were in vain.

He tried to force upon a face of strictness, but the smile on his face was irremovable. "Wage… Wage es nicht wieder zu machen! (Do… do not dare to do that again!)" he demanded, but the seriousness of his order was destroyed by the chuckles he was fighting to contain. "Verstanden? (Understood?)" It was first when she began nodding fiercely that his hands moved from her body, and despite the laughter hurting in her stomach Lichtenstein was still unable to stop.

He rose and took her up bridal style, taking her out of the cold water. He was finally able to control his face, and the lack of expression replaced his smile. Hers was still broad, though, the goal of the day accomplished. To make her brother feel good for at least a few seconds. No matter how much it saddened her to see him going back to the statue he was to the rest of the world she knew he was more. Inside he was so much more than that.

"Habt ihr zusätzliche Kleidung?(Do you have extra clothes?" he asked while moving up onto their things again and set her on the feet. There it was again, the unselfish care he had shown her ever since they met. Water was dribbling down his evergreen clothes, the uniform nearly colored a total black by the heavy water. His eyes were on the bag she had been sitting beside a few minutes before, then turned to her and tried to make her wet hair look right once more.

She crouched down beside it, her now dark red dress clinging closely to her form and curling around her legs. She was beginning to shiver, so the sense in his words was obvious. A frown reached her face. "Nein, ich habe keine. (No, I do not have any.)" The frown spread to his face, too, the way his eyes narrowed showing worry. She knew him so well. So well. Knew how he loved her, how he wished she would never leave him, how he feared she would disappear.

She was his precious little sister.

The worry about him returned and with it were those questions. What had made him so? What had caused him to be so different when he was with others, when he so clearly was kind and caring and loving? What in his past had caused him to lose his trust in the other countries? "B-bruder?" She was afraid of the answer, but also afraid what would happen if she never got it.

"Ja?" he answered, picking up his rifle and other equipments so they could get to his jeep back to his home. She had to get new, dry clothes, no matter the condition he was in.

"Warum ist-?(Why are-?)" A loud noise came from the skies, stopping her just when she had found the courage. Like all the other times she sought for the answer something got in the way. Their gazes turned upwards, into the blue endlessness, and they found the small form of a plane. It was nothing but a fly in the sky sending out smoke in the atmosphere. The Swiss raised his military binocular, adjusting it to follow the route of the white machine.

His eyebrows twitched in a way that meant bad and then settled themselves in a slightly pained position; out of the normal; possible danger; bad things. He followed the plane with the binoculars a little further and his brows moved anew, going slightly upwards and parting just slightly; thinking, trying to figure something out. "Zut, (damn,)" he cursed, this time using French. His tongue always slipped when he got stressed, and if he was truly angered he sometimes mixed all of his four languages in every sentence when he yelled, making himself impossible to understand.

This mostly happened when France flirtatiously approached Lichtenstein and Switzerland chased him with his gun or when Italy abnormally often forgot his pants on his way from and to Germany. In all cases she found it very funny to listen to, even if she knew he was raged out of his mind.

He let the binoculars fall back around his neck and turned to his little sister. "Mobil?" he asked, most of his face calm but his eyebrows and the corners of his eyes distressed and showing the concern. She nodded and first looked in her pocket. She was surprised to realize it was not there and sat down to look in her bag, only then remembering she had thrown it in the grass to save it from the water. She jumped for it and found it after a little fumbling, then ran up to him and handed it over. "Merci."

She forced the smile away from her face as he pushed in a number and began to speak rapid French into the phone. She caught the name of a Swiss politician, but in the midst of the impossible language she had no idea how to speak she was not even sure she got that right. Whenever he needed to call someone he had to borrow her phone, stubbornly denying that he needed one. He motioned for her to follow and she picked up her bag, following him to the jeep.

He was reacting very harshly on this situation, but when it had to do with the other nations he would often overreact. Now she just hoped this was such a case. That he was just overreacting again.

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><p>This is the second chapter. I can speak Danish and English, know the basic rules of German but lacks the vocabulary and I am learning Spanish. This means I will (of course) use the English language when they speak English, but since I am pretty comfortable with written German I will also take the risk of using it. I will use some words wrong, but it should be understandable. As a Scandinavian (I am from Denmark) I may also play with Norwegian and Swedish since they are so similar to my own language.<p>

If I use any other language they speak I will most likely keep it to simple sentences or single words, like my Italian inputs in Italy's rapid speech or the curses I made Switzerland use. I also decided that some of the words were too obvious to translate.

I have not intentionally implied any pairing between any country. The display of love is meant as simply love of siblings (Vash and Lil, Gilbert and Ludwig) and love of a parent (Ludwig to Feli). I do not mind the pairings Geritaly and you not care for Germancest, but I will beg of you not to mention Swiss/Licht - I HATE that pairing due to the purity I see in their relation as siblings.

**IMPORTANT NOTICE:** Another thing is that the thing in Germany was the first thing happening – then it was actually the scene in Switzerland. The scene in USA happened about twenty minutes after Vash' call. **IMPORTANT NOTICE DONE.**

And concerning the seven dogs, I have the names, gender and age of all of them here:

Great Dane, female, 10 years, is called Adelgisa (meaning noble pledge)

Boxer, male, 7 years, called Harris (meaning home ruler)

German Shepherd, female, 6 years, called Eika (meaning noble kind)

German Shepherd, male, 5 years, called Medwin (meaning powerful friend)

Boxer, female, 3 years, Clovis (meaning famed warrior)

Dachshund, male, 2 years, called Eberhard (meaning strong boar)

German Shepherd, male, 9 months, called Fredrick (meaning peaceful ruler) (and in daily life Pfoetchen (meaning small paw)).

All names and all of the breeds are German, though the breed Great Dane is called German/Danish (therefore the name, as people from Denmark are called Danes).

Damn I wrote a lot… Now I'll just wish you to enjoy in joy ^^ More Russia in the next


	3. Questions

Alright, I hereby pronounce thee my next chapter. My mind is filled past the brink with inspiration, but I have no time to actually get it out. School and all that comes with it constantly distract me and force me to waste my time as I am supposed to be a responsible human being. Which I am not. It's annoying, but I guess life can't contain only what you want to do but also has to concern what you have to do… which I do not want to, but time and space is a quite big enemy.

Warnings: Future blood etc. but in this chapter nothing of that will happen.

Reviews:

Sigart: Angst will come. In time. Russia ain't just a big, fat enemy. Ville aldrig lave noget så ensidigt. Men nej, har hvad jeg skal bruge til den del af historien – selvom der går lang tid før Danmark får en rolle at spille. Glad for at du stadig gider læse, og håber ikke tiden har fået din interesse til at falme ^^

pengirl100and2: Sadness hasn't even started yet. Things will go worse… and worse…

Happily Austria: Glad you are entertained and even happier that you find it smart. I just hope you can manage how things go and can manage the time that has passed ^^

Yaoi-Mayer: sorry, not gonna answer you :p

Arya May: Thank you for even opening this, then! And even more for liking it. Russia is quite dear to me, in his own, psychotic way. I can't promise you would like him… not in the first part of this, anyway. The amount of time he is even present is small, despite this being a story about him. I hope you will continue reading this ^^

MadsRenai: Russia dropping/losing his heart at random is canon in Hetalia – so why not use it? Besides, Russia is sick enough to use an organ popping out of his chest if it gets him what he wants, I could not doubt that (not to mention the state of his body will be important later in the story). Concerning Austria, he is more present in this chapter. And will be later on as well. Bela will be taken up in the next chapter, or the one after that (most likely in chapter four, though, where her first scene really focused on her will come up). About the length of Germany's scene – false sense of security. It's lovely, though I admit it might have gotten too long. Then there is just three things to say: 1 – you haven't written a review longer than the average of my own. It is about the same length or a bit shorter. 2 – I always go into detail with my stories and especially the characters. Sometimes I go a bit too far with the persons at times, though. And three – I'm happy I got your interest ^^

And then – the chapter. Finding a name for it was a bitch, but I got it, so things are great, da?

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><p>Questions<p>

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><p>The world was in a state of shock.<p>

A giant attack had been launched and no one had a clue just what had happened and who was to blame. It was estimated that about a thousand planes had been sent to military bases all over the world and only about two hundred had been shot down before reaching their targets. About another hundred of the enemy had been hit afterwards on the way back, but no prisoners had been possible to take. It was a very organized attack going for the biggest military bases with the most equipment and technology. For reasons unknown no country bigger than 500 square kilometres had been spared an attack on at least one base, and the planes had all hit within a time spectrum of an hour no matter where in the world it had happened, making the world know that whoever had caused this attack had planned extremely well. But no one was able to understand why the men behind this had attacked so violently. Why they wanted so many enemies.

As usually theories about who had been behind this sprouted. Unlike usually none claimed to be at fault for this act of terror as though those behind wished to be kept silent. Still theories of Al Qaeda and other Muslim extremists fluttered around in the media, the most well-known terrorists of the world once more getting the immediate blame – especially with the incident at 9/11 in mind, for this was yet another attack from airplanes. Politicians and the surviving military of the harmed countries denied this theory, claiming the Islamic fanatics not to have the finances to get such an operation underway. With the information they had the officials told the journalists that there was no way for those groups to get the amount of planes necessary for causing such damage. And especially not without the secret services around the world knowing.

Actually no one should be able to collect that amount of planes. And no one should be able to do it without anyone knowing. It was surreal.

Yes. The world was in a state of shock.

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><p>The UN had decided to make a meeting, trying to find those guilty and find a way for the world to go on and the trust between countries to be kept. The whole world was strained and everyone kept an eye on everyone. Everyone doubted everyone. And following their bosses, their leaders, were the incarnations of the countries. It was with great reluctance that England agreed to host both the meeting of the UN and have the incarnated countries collected within his borders. But one had to sacrifice themselves for the sake of peace and when Germany, the usual one to agree to make that sacrifice, kept so incredibly silent he was the only one gentleman enough to do it.<p>

Unlike usually the room was silent.

America wasn't late, and he sat in his seat silently, sulking slightly and thereby making England certain he had gotten a scolding from his boss.

France was sullen as well, the wineglass in front of his seat empty without even a single trace of red. Beside the Frenchman Spain's face for once had lost its smile and the green orbs shifted between people with only partly hidden mistrust.

The most of the Nordics seemed unaffected with their stony faces, but Denmark and Sweden weren't doing the usual staring contest and Finland, the generally softest of the five, was fidgeting in his chair.

The countries of the Middle East and Arab League sat with expressionless faces of frozen contempt, obviously ready to face the blame again, and Iran sat even further away, being especially stiff with his dark beard and traditional, white clothes.

Japan seemed totally unaffected, sitting straight and ready in his chair, but something in his eyes could not be ignored, and not too far from him China sat with crossed arms. Their Asian family was there as well, and though normally silent they were especially disquieted as well.

The only one sitting with a smile and leaning comfortable back in his chair was Russia, but the sight was so normal no one thought further into it. But his sisters were affected too, the older sitting with eyes red and darkened from lack of sleep, the younger leaning even further towards her brother as if to protect him.

The general mood in the room had never been darker, and with all that mistrust peace had never been more threatened since the height of the Cold War. And above all else, even more frightening than the mood within the meeting room, was the fact that Germany, the strictest nation of anyone's knowledge, was late. The seat at the very end of the large table, reserved especially for him by unwritten rules, stood unoccupied now five minutes into the meeting. Even though few would ever admit it the most had hoped for him to come over and fix everything with his booming voice, cold logic and annoying sharpness. He had been so quiet – he had not offered to host this meeting, and now he was missing as well.

A cold thought sank into England's heart then, so startling, impossible and yet so obvious that he had a moment of feeling seriously stupid – both for thinking this and for not considering it earlier. What if Germany was the one who caused the attack? It required one with his mind, his knowledge of war, his cold attitude, to both figure out the plan and do it. The reasons behind a war were unclear, but they had seen Germany's capability of starting wars without reasons – at least in England's point of view – twice before.

But while it seemed possible it also seemed stupid – for why would a man like he do such a thing? What motives? And wouldn't he know that they would think of him if he never showed up? Not to mention it was too sneaky, too subtle. It seemed more like the German to come out and announce to them that they were at war instead of hiding behind a great attack. And it was unlike him to close the possibilities of allies the way he had now with attacking every nation holding even the slightest threat.

The door burst open with a loud bang before England could finish his conclusion, which went towards the German actually maybe not being the danger, and all eyes snapped towards it. All thinking that Germany would finally arrive and they would finally start. All thinking in vain. It was a German standing in the door, oh yes, but not the one you wished to see if you hoped to get sense out of things. With military boots clacking against the floor the blond's brother went over to the blond's seat and kicked the blond's chair away harshly and then slamming a bunch of documents down upon the table. Everything about the albino showed a deep hostility.

"I didn't think you were much up for diplomacy," a dry voice said, Austria holding a cup of coffee in front of his face as he looked upon his long time enemy. Not two chairs from him Hungary sat, glaring rather darkly at the man. It was very unusual for Prussia to be at a meeting, and when he was it was mostly for fun and giggles and to bother those who were still nations. He and his two friends were the only ones finding it fun, but right now not even Spain or France had many smiles in spare for him. And he didn't have any at all for them.

"This is no time for diplomacy," the Prussian snarled, causing a frown to spread over Austria's face. He could see the difference in the man, and the aristocratic nation had found it especially unsettling that neither of his cousins had had any contact with him after the attack. But the ex-nation wasn't finished yet, his red eyes burning with fury. "This is a time for punishment!" Much like his brother would do to settle the nations down he slammed his hands into the surface of the table, but unlike his brother there were no nations to settle. All were quiet and unnerved.

It was easy to determine that something was wrong with the albino. Hell, something was wrong with every single one of them. The world had gone into a state of fear, searching for someone to punish. But somehow it seemed the albino was especially affected. "Where is Germany?" the Austrian therefore asked, his eyes getting wary though his face attempted to be calm. He knew his cousin. He knew the blond would never allow his brother to come to these meetings alone. Not unless it was crucial and he couldn't come on his own. "What has happen to Ludwig?"

Somehow the question got Prussia to draw back. His eyes were dark as he stood there, a pained look coming over his face. But he had to speak, hadn't he? It was necessary, even if it hurt him to talk of. Germans avoided pain, and if avoidance wasn't possible they treated it with anger. If you showed you hurt you showed weakness, but anger was a tool. "He is in the hospital." The tone was cold and dark. "It is a day ago he stopped retching blood. It is 5 days and 13 hours ago since he got sick." The day of the attack. Actually the same hour, if their calculations were not wrong. The other nations shifted uncomfortably, slowly beginning to realize where it was going.

It was news for the Austrian as well and he felt a clenching around his stomach. "I heard Berlin was hit," he said, putting down his cup with a clack and fixing his jabot when he found his hand twitching nervously and attempted to hide it. Prussia sent him a snarl, a dangerous stillness on his face. As though he was frozen in anger and hate rather than caught up with his own 'awesomeness'. Austria couldn't even call it an improvement. Not as much as it hurt to see while knowing the albino was in pain. "I didn't kno-"

"Of course you didn't know, you sissy prick! You didn't care! None of you cared!" He made a gesture towards them all before he turned his burning gaze to Russia. His eyes narrowed, his teeth got bared, and he punched the table once more as it if would make his words more powerful. All he managed was to look a violent douche, but the Austrian would not waste his breath on commenting. The man wouldn't listen anyway. "You were too busy licking your own wounds to even think of the rest of the world, too busy mistrusting each other that you didn't even fucking consider that some might be fucking hurt!" The man was enraged, that much was obvious. He was furious, and with his brother apparently hurt it was with reason. "Y'know what he asked of me? Already when he just got out of surgery when they had just stopped the bleeding and his mind was still fogged with morphine?" When no one answered and everyone simply looked he snorted. "He asked of me to check who did it. 'Do the research I can't do here', he begged. Actually wanting to find out who the hell hurt you with their psycho-attack!"

Once more his eyes moved to Russia but the Brit stopped him. "Excuse me, Prussia, but are you sure you do not want to sit down for a moment? I must admit that you are-" Scary, but that wasn't what he had been about to say, no, certainly wasn't at all. Stressed out, that was the word, but he didn't get to say that, either.

Prussia was faster and harsher and cared little about interrupting. "You know, 'Brows, I don't fucking care a flying shit about what you want me to do." The most of the nations were getting angry at this point. Though it might not be time for diplomacy it was always time for at least a little politeness – something Prussia hadn't always been good with. Now he was without his usual smirking smile as well, nothing to soften the harshness with that cruel yet charming amusement. "My brother is suffering in a fucking hospital and the only thing he has been talking to me about is whether I have found out who it is so we can find allies to crush the threat in attempt to keep these decades so called 'world peace' and save the lot of you. Don't you fucking say you haven't done anything but glare at neighbours! Don't fucking say you didn't even notice that he was hurt!"

One who felt oddly unbothered by his display of rudeness was Roderich. His mind was occupied with the worry about exactly what had happened to his German neighbour and cousin. He didn't get to ask, though, as another voice came in and interrupted, wanting to actually fix things. "What was the result of your 'research', then?" a female asked, dark and accented. Attention turned to the group from the Middle East, the Muslim countries residing there – to say the exact location it was a female nation cloaked in a full body veil. If Germany wasn't here to get things done then Saudi Arabia might as well, right? The Western countries' strifes had no interest to them – the fact that someone had bombed their military stations had. And they knew all too well that the Westerners could argue a meeting away – it would be a lie, though, if they claimed they weren't much the same.

The albino turned around to glare at the woman who simply looked back at him with levelled, dark eyes – the only part of her free for the world to see. But they were hard and would not agree to resistance. Had he been someone else and less angry he might have backed off and calmed at the sight of those eyes – but he didn't, for he was Prussia and a stubborn man. Not even the stares from the many males around her managed to calm him even the slightest. "Secret Services make it shithard to find out anything because everyone is so damn secretive about it – as if they want us to know nothing of anything! One thing I do know, though; the plane that hit Berlin was an old, outdated military plane from Soviet." All attention moved to Russia then – over to meet his innocent, childish, smiling face. He seemed absolutely unfazed by the accusation, but that wasn't enough to make him guilty. Not with Russia.

And even if it was true it was uncertain what they could do.

Few would doubt Russia able to think up a plan this insane, but how could he go through with it? How could anyone actually succeed? It wasn't really possible. And what could they do to prove it? The Prussian had papers, so shouldn't it be best for him to continue? England was about to mix into things again when Russia decided to voice his defence, sending Prussia an amused look. "Why do you accuse me of doing such things? Russia was hit as well, da. And starting wars like this is suicide." His voice was pleasant and smooth, like a cat just before it pierced the mouse with its claws. The lie passed his lips as easily as he could take a swig of vodka, and he was so trained in his work that his face remained still, no traces of untrue present in the form of twitches. Acting was a skill he had long since learned to perfect.

An unamused snort sounded from the albino and he tapped his hand on the documents he had slammed on the table, fierce hatred shining from his eyes. "I made a list of all the countries that got hit by the airplane. Thanks to your stupid polices I have had to use stupid internet, but awesome as I am I found proof of at least one attack everywhere – or, of course not Russia and some of the tini ones, but the tinies aren't strong, rich or loco enough to make an attack like that." It wasn't that he was fully stupid.

It was just that the evidence he had gathered was thin, unofficial stuff made by a former enemy of the accused, and the accused was Russia. "We have national problems with internet right now," the man simply smiled, his head tilted slightly – innocently. Once more not even Dr. Cal Lightman would be able to find a mistake. "Winterstorm destroyed many cables and thereby destroyed the internet. Because a large area is affected the government decided to cut it off for all of the country and do some revising."

Revising the internet… That stirred another nation able to call a lot of attention. "Revising the internet?!" America called from afar, standing up as if his noisy voice wasn't enough to draw attention. A furious expression settled on Prussia's face when the topic began changing. "What does that mean?! The hell are you doing?! Is it like-?" There was a cruel flash in the Russian's eyes, a cruel smile tainting the false innocence, giving America a look of horror upon his face. Acting really was his specialty. "You can't mean that! That's against the rules! It's against freedom of speech to make censorship!"

That got China up from his chair as well, "you cannot speak of things you have never tried, aru!"

An amused chuckled came from Russia on the side, the act finally unnecessary to be convincing, "what will you do when I say SOPA? Or PIPA? Or ACTA?"

And then the argument was on the way, America and China going at it with the ferocity of China's annoyance with the young nation and Russia sitting with a cruelly amused look on his face. When Prussia began yelling at them that they should get back on track the argument had moved over to money and debt, to 'freedom' against 'order', to poverty and ideology and corruption and simple, personal disdain. Had Prussia been Germany and able to keep some cool it might have been different, but at that point he had been out of his mind.

France and Spain, in the end, had to hold him back from choking both America and Russia. England was standing as well, yelling to his former charge about manners in sentences filled with curse words. Japan was trying to get heard, attempting to tell them that they should calm down and be silent in a voice so calm and silent in itself that his words disappeared in screams and shouts – but he did get an approving glance from the silent Swiss on the side for actually saying a word of his own.

Algeria at some point got so angry that he stood up and began yelling at them in Arabic, telling them to sit down and get things done when they had been _bombed_, but one wrong comment to him from America about language and culture got the rest of the more ferocious countries in the Arab League to yell as well, leaving Egypt, Oman, Jordan, Tunisia and a few others to sit silently in the midst of a raging crowd. Australia and even Greece got woken up from the usual meeting-slumber, and Austria sat with a palm to his head, grumbling about inefficiency and imbeciles just as Hungary moved to end the struggle with Prussia, frying pan in hand.

The Nordics kept out of it, but only because Norway had taken a hold of Denmark's collar and dragged him back to his chair when he tried to move to help France and Spain in holding back the Prussian. They didn't want the trouble of it, but with the cold, emotionless faces most of them held there was only silence between them. At least when among other people. They had been hit by bombs as well, and left with near no military as a consequence of the sparse military they held even before the attack they wanted to find the culprit and away him or her quickly. When the Prussian actually nearly managed to get the attention back on track and about a tenth on the nations listened to him Belarus stood as well and yelled that her brother couldn't have done this, for she had been hit as well. Ukraine took her side, the belief fierce in their hearts.

And enjoying the show and keeping the argument going with necessary remarks and keeping the tempers high without becoming too suspicious was a smiling Russia, playing the others like a puppeteer with invisible strings. The Baltics could feel that. They had met his temper many times, seen his techniques, knew his tricks and knew his mind. Still, two of them turned to a third, Estonia turning his face towards Toris without letting his eyes move from their old tormentor. "It _is_ him, right?" the middle one asked, holding the Latvian's hand silently. Their smallest member had never been fond of loud noises and fighting, and his years under Russia had done nothing to make that better. The noise was loud, making the three of them able to talk without notice – even though they had to talk loudly.

"Yes." Toris would always be the one of them who knew Russia the best, though it wasn't with his own consent. He could see that beneath the amusement his expression showed there was a satisfaction about the whole situation. "He is starting a war." But beneath the satisfaction, the cruel calculation, there was something darker. The brunette Baltic could see it. To him it seemed a… a wound, bleeding and festering. But it was so well hidden he thought it might just be his worrying that spoke to him, telling him again that Russia wasn't so bad and just needed a tiny, giant bit of help. "He… he's playing his… his games again," he still mumbled to the rest. A collective shiver ran through all of them, making Latvia's trembling that much worse for a moment. When Russia played it was always them who got hurt.

But something had to be done, and after having continued sitting, not bothering to stop what had ended in several small but loud fights all over the room, Estonia moved to stand. "We have to do something." In his own way he had always been the strongest of them. Having his intelligence was a great advantage for him, and less fearful than Latvia and not overly kind as Lithuania he was able to control his emotions with cold logic. Right now he knew they had to stop him before it was too late.

Even though Raivis had reached out to drag him back into his seat again as Eduard halfway stood, about to beg him not to draw attention to them, it wasn't the smallest of the trio who got the other back down on his chair. As though knowing they knew, as if aware they had figured him out, Russia turned in that very moment from the arguments and sent a piercing stare into the heart of the Estonian. For a moment the Baltic froze, unable to move, his heart speeding while his lungs were clogged. He couldn't even sit back in his chair as he stood with bent knees, not even standing up straight before their old master decided to warn his dogs about not disobeying. Then a smile spread, the most sinister, dangerous, deadly smile that childish face could muster, finally getting Estonia out of his freezing fear. Memories filled his mind, memories of years of fear and torment brought back to the surface at the sight of a single expression.

When he hit the chair again a whimper escaped Eduard's mouth and he took his arms up to hug himself, eyes closed in an attempt to hide his tears. He failed, drops silently trickling down his cheeks even if the Russian hadn't even touched him – Russia no longer had to touch to give them pain. Estonia's breathing was labored and Latvia, who of course also noticed the man's mental assault, had begun panicking again, muttering "he's going to take us again, he's going to take us again" through panting, overburdened lungs.

"He… He won't," Lithuania promised the smallest, standing from his chair to get a hand on Latvia's shoulder past Estonia's head. "The rest of the world… they won't let it happen." For a moment the Latvian might even have been improving. He might even show to get his mood a little better. A flicker of hope dared to pass by the bright, blue orbs of the small nation.

It was quickly gone, though, when Estonia said the fact that was simply too true for the three of them. "They won't, and you both know it." And the other two couldn't deny it. Nations that could not protect themselves apparently seemed to suffer – at least if they were Baltic. And the enemy was Russia. Still the Latvian just wanted a… a little bit of good times, a little bit of success, but… "They didn't last time. 'Illegal occupation'. What does that even mean when no one decides to act on it?" His voice was dark as he stared into the table, afraid to even look at the Russian nation, but his tone of voice was in no way submissive.

Of course the Estonian was right, they could not deny it. The world never lifted a hand to rid them of their pain, no matter what they called the act. After a flicker of regret and sadness had passed his blue eyes, though, Lithuania stood and moved behind the Latvian's chair, daring to give the small, shivering nation a hug. "It won't happen again," he said, whispering into the Baltic's ear through the arguments passing by them from nation to nation and group to group. Without Germany they were a bunch of lost, little kids. "He won't take you again. I won't let him, Latvia, I promise you that."

* * *

><p>The meeting was finally closed off when the time was up, but the moods were still hot and ready for violence. Russia moved out the door as he would have if he hadn't attacked the other nations, his bottle of vodka in his hand and a hum on his smiling lips. No signs were left of his treacherous act as he moved with the other nations, past doors heavily guarded by soldiers who had not been residing in the great military bases the Russian had more or less destroyed and onto the streets of the capital of the United Kingdom. The nations around him disappeared into their respective cars to their respective hotels, so they could get their respective baggage and go home.<p>

The usual situation was that the nations got a single hotel to live in, and often held their meetings in a room in the hotel they were given to not attract attention from the public eye. It was bad enough when their leaders had to move around or be hidden by the police, but a country getting attacked was a much more dangerous thing that a simple person from that country. Usually the current bosses of each nation would also be in the host country for meetings at those times, meaning there was more than enough for the host to look after already. This was the situation of today, and Russia suspected there would be personal meeting between each country and their boss to find out what the other had experienced. That wouldn't happen to him. His boss had become nothing but a hostage for him.

The smile stayed on as he stepped into the car. It kept there as his driver drove him back towards his own hotel. Even as he moved up the stairs and into his own room was it there for the public eyes to see, for humans not even knowing him to witness and be frightened, the act following him all the way till no eyes could see.

There the act fell. The despair drove him to hit the wall hard enough for the outmost layer to smolder, his eyes brimming with tears. Damn it. Damn it. Germany… Germany shouldn't have been hit. One of the engines of the plane had set afire, that was the last they had heard from the man within the only fighter. But why had the pilot gone for Berlin? _Why?_ He needed the guy up and around, damn it!

The man's mind was a messy cloud, the emotions hard for him to handle. To him emotions always ended with outbursts, for the madness did not want him to feel the pain of the world outside his head. He shivered, his breathing hard and trembling. It was obvious the German had been bad. The things Prussia had described. Russia hadn't known that was where the plane had hit. Would this extinguish all his plans? Would it mean he had made a mistake and this would all be over too soon? That death and destruction would come too soon? The man was needed, he was the only one who could unite the nations, the only one who might keep calm enough to hold an overview, the one that could control the battle…

Actually it was good he hadn't been at the meeting. The thought broke through the clouds in Russia's mind, killing the despair that formerly made the Russian shiver in suppressed, insane rampaging. It was good he hadn't been present and had sent his rowdy brother instead. None would believe the brother, the brother was too rash and not convincing enough in his arguments. Had Germany said the things Prussia had things would have been happening too soon for certain – now it was simply a risk. Had the blond been there to tell them Russia was the cause the other would have listened and Russia would have been caught. That would have destroyed everything.

Germany wasn't dead yet. He might recover. That would be good, if he recovered and awakened Russia's enemies in the way they should be woken. The German would convince them of who the cause was, and he would be right when he blamed Russia. The man would gather the countries and extinguish arguments in the way only Germany and his voice was able to. He could make the other countries forget their feuds and instead work together against Russia.

That was good. That just meant Russia had to make preparations. That he had to act faster than them as well. And that he couldn't follow through with his plan on going to the next meeting as well, when the countries once more found themselves in need of taking care of the threat. It would come, when their tempers had fallen. The idea that the enemy was Russia had been sparked as well, even though the countries felt they missed evidence. Might be he would be caught even without the German there to convince the rest.

It was good Germany had been hit. Otherwise everything would have gone bad.

The smile that the Russian had acted all the way through the meeting, ever since Prussia arrived and spread his news of the blond, German nation, came back. And this time it was no act. Things were going smoothly.

It might even be that Germany's blood had made everything just that much slicker for the smoothness to better.

* * *

><p><em>October 15<em>_th__, somewhere near Xian, China, 00:23 local time_

The night was about as dark as night could be. The moon was gone, only a hair's breadth of silver shown in case one could fly above the close, black clouds. The world seemed black as lead, the darkness impenetrable. The world might have been standing still if not for the wind that whistled in the trees of the small garden. The world was as black as the mood within the house to which the garden belonged. The lone man living in it sat inside his house, staring at the black world and contemplating if the night knew what the world was coming to.

The brown eyes of the incarnation of China were settled on the clouds. The meeting two days ago had been a fiasco, unsurprisingly, but that didn't stop the ancient man from being annoyed. Worry was in his heart as well and he tried to make out the information he had gotten. Sleep wouldn't come to him. The situation of the world had left him with a bad feeling, for his military had gotten heavily damaged, and his dreams were haunted by the memories of the victims who experienced the events at the harmed bases.

Whoever did this did it well. They had destroyed most of his airplanes, a great deal of his fleet and a small amount of tanks and cars. He had even managed to take down many of the enemy, but unfortunately the planes they had shot down had managed to crash close enough to the Chinese bases to wipe out great, military areas when the bombs went off.

That was the reason why China was at this house. The world had become modern and China usually lived as such in the giant buildings within the great cities, where the road to work was close and he could see the vastness of his world and once more growing power. It was great to be big, and it was great to be modern, but in times of trouble and hardships the ancient nation found his longing for the olden times. Back when wars were fought with swords and honor was sacred and you could expect enemies to come from the ground, not the air.

It were these memories that got the man to flee from his giant apartment in Beijing and out into the small, old, traditional house hidden in the mountains near Xi'an. The longing of the old was strong in an old man, and nations got even older. China was 4000 years old and had 4000 years of memories to look back on and long for. It had been simpler times with simpler thoughts and the world hadn't been so big. Travelling was harder, yet easier, and the places you travelled for were far where they now were near. Gain and loss of greatness, good and bitter memories yet both with the romantic feeling time put upon your past.

Back then an attack as this wouldn't happen. Back then the enemy wouldn't be able to hide. Back then the amounts of enemies you could face weren't as many, and a war certainly wouldn't be a risk to destroy the whole world.

The relationship between him and Russia had become closer again in the last few years. The stalking had developed into something like an awkward friendship. They had a common enemy and a shared wish to get attention and power from the young and cocky superpower, America. In the case of an attack China wanted and wished to be able to say that Russia hadn't done it simply because China had been a victim as well. Unfortunately the Russian didn't work like that, and China knew it. With Russia you could never know what was going on or when his opinions changed.

China could take care of himself, he would never doubt that. He was powerful, he had lived longer than any other nation and his economy was growing big enough to make the whole of the world dependent of him. Without him a big amount of the production would be gone – soon the world would be made in China. It wasn't that he was afraid he couldn't manage without support from Russia when facing his enemies. It was just that… as uncomfortable as Russia was and as much as he would want him at a distance… Being powerful and independent was lonely if you had no one to have it with. No matter if the man you spoke to about it was an insane creep or no.

He had no reason to believe Russia had done what the Prussian had accused him to. But he had even fewer reasons to believe the maniac not to have done it. The attack… it was big, it was planned, and behind it laid the need of vast resources and influence. The amount of people, even countries, with that amount of power was few.

China was among those. America as well, but he was ruled out for being… well, stupid America. Germany could, but unless Prussia was a better liar than China expected of him the German had been hurt in the attack. Japan had the technology, but China knew it wouldn't be his way – it was too rash and mindless. It created enemies everywhere, and Japan was clever enough to at least act like they were friends until he stabbed them in the back.

A grimace moved over China's face at that thought and he turned away from the sky and the black clouds, stopping with his musings over the other Asian man. Stopping his musings that caused the insane attack he stood from the seat by his window, going over to his bed with silent steps. There was a chill in the air as he took off his robe again, making a shiver move over his body. Everything felt wrong; he could feel it deeply into his bones. But there was nothing he could do but try to keep what strength he had left and trust his people to regain what was lost.

As he lay down and sleep finally caught him he dreamt. He dreamt of explosions and blood and broken bones, of watchtowers getting blasted to pieces and panic in the minds of the soldiers as they made their last scream. He dreamt of snow dripping blood, of the wail of a small man, of voices united in a single scream and of a forest on fire. He dreamt of violet eyes and a mad smile, but soon the smile left and the eyes shed tears… and the tears became crimson.

When he awoke again he had realized just how naïve and stupid the world had been yet another time.

* * *

><p><em>October 14<em>_th__, Denver Health Medical Center, Denver, Colorado, U.S.A. 10:23 local time_

Usually there would be a smile on his face. Usually he would grin and talk and attract attention to himself. Usually the incarnation of the United States of America would show nothing but happiness to those outside his mind.

It didn't happen today. The initiative was his own, to contact the victims of the attacks one by one. The President was by his side to show the men support. Yeah, it was to show them that the country and government cared, but also to find out personally if anyone, even a single man, had any knowledge about the identity of their enemy. If someone, somewhere, in some state, had heard something.

Private soldiers had been on ground, asleep, at their stations… they hadn't been in contact with the enemy. Only those in the watchtowers and those on surveillance duty _might_ have heard something… but until now the only survivor on that duty, in the state of Alabama, had hit his head so hard in the collapse of that building that his memory of the whole of the day had yet to come back.

They had been to various states at this point. Texas, New Mexico and Arizona just yesterday. Most of the rest of the Bible Belt had been taken before the meeting. It was done rather quickly, but that was both because they did it out of public and… well, there were few survivors. Few people who they could visit. Even fewer to talk to, as many were in coma or too drugged or hurt to speak sense. In Colorado there were sixteen survivors, all in a relatively steady state, but four of the sixteen were kept in coma and four suffered from head injury, resulting in no speech, incoherence or motor problems that troubled the poor doctors. Of the seven remaining they were told two had gotten off with a few broken limbs, three 'only' suffered controlled internal bleeding and were simply kept for monitoring, two had burns covering their body and the last had a broken spine.

It was no worse than the other states. If anything there were more survivors than in some. They had no hope of finding out anymore than they already knew, and America felt somber and sad at the thought of his injured soldiers getting injured for nothing. They had been at a few of the bases and seen the wounded mass of earth and metal, a sore in the surface of Mother Earth. The ruins had still been smoking when he saw them in Florida just two days after the incident – there had been no survivors from there. The fire had trapped them all and the three that got out alive died from burns and smoke inhalation after a night at the hospital.

The only good thing in this was that the assaulter hadn't used nuclear weapons. The damages were still great, but with nuclear power it would be even greater. Then whole states and not only bases would be affected, people would have to be moved, panic would arise… Now they only had a few thousand plus who had died or were wounded. That was better than a whole of a state – or more – glowing with radiation.

The white hall was silent as America moved forward, led by a nurse and accompanied by generals and officials and politicians. The young nation's face was long, but covered, the true fear and worry hiding beneath the surface. Like his country he could show confidence and strength to the rest of the world while the truth was uneasy fear and crumpling uncertainty. For he _was_ his country.

At the door the nurse asked them to split up as to not stress out the patients. The group consisted of nine besides Alfred. It seemed she thought it unnecessary to let the patients see all of the people that had come for them. She seemed to think that as long as the government showed a little attention they would feel a little better.

America disagreed. "I want to see them all." Her attention moved to him and the wonder in her eyes told she had barely noticed him before. And she was not impressed. What she saw was a teenager mixing with important adults, not even decent enough to comb his hair right. The fact that he hadn't dressed in suits for the occasion didn't help him, in his rugged jeans and jacket. But when she looked into his eyes she could see the experience of an old man and the determination only leaders held. Suddenly she didn't dare disagreeing.

The first he met was a man called Alexander Cross. He was the man with the broken spine, lying on the bed with a distant look on his face. He had lost his ability to walk and couldn't feel anything below the waist. The career he had chosen was dead if he could no longer walk. A soldier with no legs was a useless soldier.

Not even the arrival of another made him look to the side. The tug in his heart at the sight of pure hopelessness nearly caused Alfred to cry and he choked a sob, going back into hiding his sadness with a smile. He settled down beside the man on a comfy chair, his eyes sparkling with life and happiness. "Hey, dude. 'Sup?" The man's eyes moved over to him, over to the bright smile, but it could not reach him.

Or maybe it did. The soldier swallowed as if to moister his dry mouth. It was obvious he felt uncomfortable – he couldn't recognize the man. Still he felt some sort of relation to the man sitting by him. Not that he would ever know the two of them were the same, that the man beside him was his country worrying about his health. "Why are you… here?" he asked, his voice and eyes tired.

"Well, me and my boss, the President, are meeting with the victims of the attack. You know it happened other places as well, right?" The teenage nation received a nod, and a look of disbelief. The guy had a hard time believing someone looking so young had any relation with the head of state. America didn't mind it, just grinned at him. "Well, anyway, we wanna tell you that you don't have to worry about money. The economy's shit but we'll make sure you get the best treatment for free – no way I'll let some form of secret, coward enemy destroy the lives of my soldiers." There was a slight spark of life in the soldier's eyes, making America's convincing, false smile become true. "We also want to locate that stupid coward enemy, but we don't have a single clue, so that's kinda shitty."

If England had heard how he spoke he might be annoyed and ready to kill him. To this hopeless soldier it seemed to bring him some form of life, as though facing this brightness from a supposedly young mind proved to him that life was still worth living. "I-I… I was told to be ready to fire… Didn't know much, but…" He blinked, as if going back to the day – or rather night – brought him great discomfort. It didn't stop him, though. He… apparently he wanted to help his country and this kid, unknowing that the two were one and the same. "Captain Jeoffrey then said it was false alarm… he sounded relieved but I got annoyed… I followed orders. Next thing I knew he began screaming to me I should ready to fire again. I began arguing back at him… I was tired and annoyed. I could hear the urgency, though, so I tried to obey… But before I even got to retell the order… the walls began to fall."

America made sure to listen carefully and nodded slowly as the man spoke, but reached the conclusion that the man didn't know anything. That saddened him, but it might be… "Is the Captain still alive?" he asked. It might be that one knew something. Then it might be they were able to find their enemy then. But it wasn't possible.

Alexander made the smallest shake of his head. "No. He was crushed when the tower fell." All air seemed to disappear from America's lungs at the face of yet another disappointment. Yet another no. It seemed to nearly pain the man upon the sickbed and he took in another breath. "I think… Paul… Paul Mason… He was up there as well. I think he survived." Hope sparked in America's eyes again, making a near satisfied smile come upon the formerly so hopeless face. As though Alexander was the reason for the sudden happiness in the teen's eyes.

America stood and reached for his hand, smiling to the poor soldier as he shook it. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll look for him, 'kay? I haf'ta go now, though. Thanks for the chat!"

He turned away to find a nurse, searching for the new name. He quickly stopped, though, when the hand didn't let go of him. He turned back and looked into the eyes of his wounded soldier… and he found them teary. "Thanks…" the man said in a shivering voice. "Thank you for using your time. I-I…"

"You don't have to say anything," America grinned. He got his hand free gently and sent the other a thumbs up, the smile wide but in no way patronizing. "You get better, 'kay?!" And then he turned away and left, feelings deeply settled in his chest. There was warmth in there, near his heart, as he closed his eyes outside for a moment to feel the bliss. This was the feeling he loved. The feeling of doing the right thing, the feeling of being a hero.

Too fast that feeling was gone. The moment he found a nurse he was told that Paul Mason indeed had survived – this made him jump up and down in joy – but that he unfortunately had "problems communicating". When he asked why the woman told him the soldier had lost both eardrums in the explosion, making him unable to hear.

They had put him through surgery, but infection had caught both ears and made the healing go slow – if it would ever happen. They were trying to treat him, but as it was he might never regain his hearing. The man didn't understand sign language and couldn't read lips, and he suffered a constant headache as well, making it hard for his eyes to focus on letters. The first time he awoke he had panicked due to the fact that he was unable to hear his own voice. The childless man had soon grown deep into depression and ignored both his girlfriend – who ended up breaking with him in a fit of anger – his two sisters and his parents.

That left America sad, hurt and disappointed. Still he insisted on meeting the man after being warned that the sight would not be pretty.

In truth the sight was no problem. The man had a broken arm and foot, and bandages covered his head, but it was obvious he was in no danger and didn't seem to suffer from everlasting injuries. His condition was clearly better than Alexander's – at least on what you could see.

It was the mood in the room that wasn't pretty. The eyes that were so hard and empty, staring up into the ceiling as though it was sight and not hearing he had lost. Depression filled the air like fog, floating so thickly the teen nation felt like he was breathing it in, suffocating on sadness. "H-hey…" he said, before realizing how stupid that was. The man heard nothing. Seemed to see nothing. It was as though all care for life had left. It might was well have been a corpse upon those white, pure sheets, and this room could have been a morgue.

A part of America told him to run, flee, put the task on another. Another part felt the need to go closer and get the information he needed, wanted, had to get. The last, and biggest, wanted to save this man. But running was cowardice and cowardice was unfit for heroes. He therefore sat on a chair like the one in Alexander's room and looked upon the man, waiting and begging for some sort or acknowledgement.

When it didn't come America sighed. How could he do this? What could he do? At some point he decided he was thinking too much and therefore stopped. Instead of trying to fix things with his brain he would do it with his actions, for thoughts were nothing. The only way it could help him was if the explosion had given him the ability to hear thoughts, and though Daredevil had done something like that and had become awesome when he lost his sight the American teen dared not hope for it.

So instead of sitting on the chair he stood, moved over to the bed, and sat beside the soldier's hip. No reaction, but the hell that would stop him! His hand moved over the other's body to find the unbroken arm and stroked it, taking the man's hand in his own and clenching it.

Not to hurt him. Not with all the inhuman strength America always forgot he held. But to show the deaf man that he was still here. That the world still wanted him. That he wasn't alone.

Paul's eyes blinked when it happened. Then he frowned. Eyes moved downwards, finding Alfred's blue ones, finding the smile and the glow that had reached for Alexander. Still holding him with one hand Alfred lifted the other and gave the soldier a thumbs up as well. The expression on the soldier's face remains unchanged – a frown, deep and confused, with eyes that only barely seemed to register the nation in front of him.

The man was far away. It was heartbreaking for the American, devastating to see how a man could be broken and empty like this. He didn't let it show, though. He couldn't show that he agreed with those emotions, he shouldn't confirm the man's state of mind. If he did there was no way of pulling him back.

But even more importantly he had to establish contact without speech, without even using sound. The man had to have no idea who the stranger in front of him was, even though the pull between nations and their people had to still affect him. America was raking his mind from chamber to chamber in search of ideas to communicate. And once more, as he found absolutely nothing of help through thinking, he decided just to do.

And so he pouted. His movements were great and overdone to make sure the other realized what he was doing and his lower lip was pushed forward in a childish grimace. The hand clenching the other's limb let go and instead folded over his chest, looking at the man with even more childish judgment.

There was the tiniest positive twitch around Paul's lips.

Something as simple as that made endless joy fill America's heart and his usual smile flashed through, a laugh even escaping the young nation's throat. The soldier raised his eyebrows questioningly, causing America to frown at him – then stick out his tongue. And slowly he forced life into the other's face, the tongue bringing the man to finally smile for real. Making a supposedly sophisticated expression, raising his eyebrows and pushing his lips forward like a duck, America lifted both hand to make a false, polite applause.

This made the other deadpan him with a near murderous look, but America apparently found this amusing. He threw his head back in a laugh, the sound so sincere even the deaf man could hear it. And then the American managed what family and friends had become unable to. He was accepted by the crippled man, and said man opened his mouth shakily, looking up at the ceiling again with a pained grimace. For the first moment America didn't understand. Then it made sense.

Headache. The man had a killer of a headache.

"W-h… who…?"

The word sounded nearly queer, thick and shaking and filled with uncertainty. A new, different grimace moved over the human's face. As if it brought him pain to speak. And maybe it did. Maybe knowing you spoke while no sound reached you _did_ bring you pain. Maybe it _was_ agonizing to produce words without knowing what you said.

Luckily America understood immediately and he produced his card – the one a boss from long ago had forced him to make. Of course it had been updated over time, and it said that America was an important government official with military background and various other things. It took the human a very long time of staring, holding the card with his one hand, before he seemed to understand the letters. Oh, right. Headache.

When he was done, though, he looked at the supposed 'official' with doubt. Seriously? A kid like that, now sitting and grinning victoriously at him, sitting in a high ranking office? The man would deem the kid somewhere around 17-19, and he quite clearly had the mind of a child. But that made the other… was his name Alfred? No less pleasurable. Even if he had an office that seemed higher than his abilities.

The two of them talked for a while. As much as you can talk when one cannot hear. The American did what he could to amuse and brighten the other's day, tried for everything in the world to create smiles, and waited with his question.

By the time Paul was served dinner the American had him sitting up with the smallest smile on his face and the tiniest light beaming from his eyes. The nurse smiled, set down the tray of quite decent food, and then left again. As Paul began eating America did his best to show the most seriously contempt and disgust by the food – once more for Paul's amusement – and in the end, as though they were old comrades, the soldier kicked out at the nation with his healthy foot.

It was comfortable, though odd, to be with a man unable to really communicate. He didn't have much more time, he realized when looking at the clock, for he wanted to meet with the other victims. And so, while the patient ate his food America found a notebook and a pen on the table beside the bed, probably to be used for exactly what he was about to do. Paul watched him with a frown as he wrote down a question.

_Do you know who is behind the attack?_

Then America passed the note, waiting as Paul took a long time reading it. Waiting as the man grimaced over the letters and his headache. Waiting as the man put the note away, sent the other a small look before turning away, a sad expression settling on his face.

"No?" America asked with a sad expression before once more remembering the man's condition. The wounded soldier turned back to look at him for a moment, looking as though he was in pain.

Then he nodded, answering yes.

The smile that evolved on America's face was bigger than his face could contain and without thinking the young man flew at the soldier and embraced him in a hug, sending food flying over the floor and the sheets. The discomfort and slight fear filling the soldier's face disappeared – probably having grown from him holding back such important information. America didn't care. Finally they could get answers, finally they had their enemy. As he pulled back America tilted his head questioningly, happiness shining out of him.

The man was taken aback by the sudden embrace and yet finding it incredibly comfortable Paul stared at him. And continued. Then he opened his mouth, trying to speak again. "Ru-Ru-" Already then America's face froze, slight fear and great discomfort filling his face. Paul hesitated another them, but the other had already figured it out. Still he finished the answer. "Russia…" That had been the last thing he really heard. His own voice speaking that very word before he was slammed into the wall and the whole building collapsed over him. His arm had been crushed under the stone, his whole body was bruised and his foot hand been twisted as he laid in his little hole under the rubble. But nothing… nothing hurt as much as his head.

His whole life had been ruined in that very moment because of that little word.

He could see the information was bad. That it was one of the worst things the kid could have heard. Still there was little he could do, for the other had wanted the truth.

Finally the frozen expression disappeared from America's face and instead it became gratitude. Cold and fearful, but honest, gratitude. The young nation reached for the notebook again and scribbled down words once more, the human's face filled with confusion. Then the young nation was done and gave the soldier the book before he was up and ran for the door. Then he turned around for a moment and bowed deeply in the way of a Japanese man, standing in the doorway and giving the man this salute.

When he was gone again he found his boss as fast as he could and stopped him. "I know who." Immediately the man's ears perked and he was alert and ready to listen. "It's Russia. It was Russia all along, as we were warned. We have to call for a meeting and tell the rest. It was a soldier, by the way, Paul Mason. We gotta help him, he's a pretty cool guy. Anyway, we have to gather the world, and we should invite Russia as well – might be we can catch him."

The human watched his partner and pain-in-the-ass nation for a moment, wondering how the young and childish man had suddenly gotten so serious. Then he nodded. "I just got a call of a meeting. It was from the office. Someone got before us and has demanded a new meeting. We are going to Poland when we reach the airport."

For a moment America stared. Then he began laughing, the usual, annoying laugh, and all signs of his sudden maturity disappeared. "_Poland?!_ The cross dresser? Are you sure? AHAHAHA! He'd never do that!" Unfortunately his boss was serious. Dead serious. And that dragged America's mood downwards again. "You mean it? Damn. But I can't go yet."  
>"Al-"<p>

"Na-ah, I can't. Promised to visit all my soldiers. No way a stupid cross dresser is gonna make me neglect my people and my promises! And I'm gonna kill Russia when I meet him again!"

"_Alfred-!_"

"Bye! See you at the plane in an hour?"

And so, the President of the United States of America sat in Air Force One for three hours, waiting for his stupid nation to arrive as the kid wasted his time cheering up his soldiers.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you, Paul Mason.<em>

_Thank you a lot_

_You don't know how much time and how many lives you just saved by telling me this. You don't know just how much you have done for me, for my people, and for the world. You have no idea how happy you just made me or how big a load you took from my shoulder._

_Stay alive. Find happiness. There's still a man inside you, behind your pain and sadness and confusion and fear. A man able to laugh with a stupid, immature, false teen. Your ears are not what decide who you are – only your heart can do that, and your mind. _

_Stay alive. When the war is done I will look for you. When I find you I expect to see the strong man hiding in your gaze. With or without hearing, your country, your family and America needs you. _

_I will look for you._

_Alfred F. Jones_

Tears had fallen on to the paper when Paul Mason finished reading. He shivered, sniffled, and then ripped out the page, missing the sound of the tearing paper. The sheet was folded once. Then twice. Then he put it in his bag, in a special compartment.

* * *

><p>Done. Done and done and over with. Long. A little bit too long. It is finished, though. I will warn you that my favorite character, Switzerland, will have a bigger part of the story than first planned. Grudgingly on my part, but that's what he gets for being stubborn. And soon he would wish he'd never done it and just wanted to follow my orders, for damn he has been a pain in the ass -.-' Now I have but one thing to say for you, my dear readers who hopefully still reads this:<p>

Enjoy in joy ^^

Oh, and what did one snowman say to the other snowman?


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